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THE MAKING OF JANE 







♦ 






THE MAKING 
OF JANE 

A NOVEL 


BY 

SARAH BARNWELL ELLIOTT 

AUTHOR OF “JERRY,” “THE DURKET SPERRET,” 

“AN INCIDENT AND OTHER HAPPENINGS,” ETC. 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
NEW YORK ::::::::::::::::: 1901 

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Copyright, 1901, by 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


All rights reserved 


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TROW DIRECTORY 

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
NEW YORK 


TO 


M. J. P. C 


The Making of Jane 

i 

“ When ye stood up in the house 
With your little childish feet. 

And in touching Life’s first shows, 

First the touch of Love did meet — 

Love and nearness seeming one, 

By the heart-light cast before, 

And of all Beloveds, none 
Standing farther than the door — ” 

I T was a large room, a nursery ; it was wainscoted, 
and the wainscoting was painted gray; the wall 
above it, and the ceiling, were white. Being in a wing 
of the house, the room had windows to the north, to 
the south, and to the west; the fourth side was occu- 
pied by a door and a fireplace. In front of the fire- 
place there was a tall wire fender painted green, with 
brass knobs at stated intervals on the top. The car- 
pet showed rich and warm in occasional spots in the 
far corners, but everywhere else it had been worn 
down to a uniform gray. There were two old-fash- 
ioned trundle-beds in the room, and a high crib of an- 
tique shape. There were high chairs and little chairs ; 
an old chest of drawers with glass knobs ; a washstand 
too tall for the children to reach, and a cane-bottomed 
I 


The Making of Jane 

rocking-chair, large and battered. Everything in the 
room was more or less battered, yet it had a beauty of 
its own. 

It was a winter evening, gray and misty, with a fine 
rain falling. A sad, desolate evening such as come only 
in Southern countries when the sun is gone and there 
is no crispness in the air. A fire burned in the big 
fireplace, a ruddy bank of logs that was slowly turning 
into coals where all the shades of red and purple 
glowed and thin blue flames crept in and out about the 
fiery mass. A fire that struck a strong light up against 
the high white ceiling, and cast dark shadows in the 
far corners, and made the face of the black woman 
rocking a snow-flake of a baby in the big chair, to shine. 
Some children, like little steps, the youngest just walk- 
ing, played about on the floor with many miscellaneous 
articles. Pine-burrs, shells, some old chess-men, some 
home-made cloth dolls, strings of empty spools which 
they sometimes put as crowns on their curly heads, 
and some hoary blocks worn cornerless with use. They 
were speaking in stage whispers now, and tipping 
about on their little toes, for the nurse was rocking 
the baby to sleep, singing a melancholy “Spiritual ” — 

“In dat day — in dat day, 

When you see de Lawd a-comin’ 

In dat day — in dat da-y-y ! ” 

And as she rocked the old chair creaked and groaned. 

But presently the eldest child stepped on a block 
that turned, she plunged forward upsetting the brother, 
tumbling him against the little sister who, being by 
2 


The Making of Jane 

no means firm on her legs, sat down very hard. 
Immediately her head was thrown back, her eyes were 
shut tight, her mouth fell open and a shrill cry was 
emitted that rent the air. The baby started wide 
awake and the nurse sat up straight in her chair. 

“ Now, Miss Janey ! ” she cried, “ what is you doin’? 
I dis gitten dis baby to sleep, en you is done wake um 
up. Git up, Mass Jimmy, doan you cry, you is boy. 
Come yer, Miss Mayon; come yer, my chile, an tell 
yo’ mawmer wey hot you.” 

“ Det up, Ma’on,” the little boy pleaded, putting one 
short arm round his sister’s neck in a way that bid fair 
to strangle her, but Marion did not stir. She seemed 
to be pleased with her present importance and contin- 
ued to wail aloud, with closed eyes from which no tear 
came. 

“ Now, Miss Janey, you see what you is do,” the 
nurse went on, “ meckin’ Miss Mayon st’at wid dat 
dry cry, en you know say nobody kin stop um.” 

“ I tripped on a block,” Janey explained. “ Come, 
Marion,” she went on, “ take my doll, my new doll,” 
forcing the least defaced of the effigies into the arms 
of the little wailer. “ It’s my new doll, Marion, open 
your eyes ; the one with the pink frock.” 

“ Teck yo’ sister doll, my chile,” the nurse chimed 
in, and now she turned the baby down on his stomach 
across her knees, and began a joggling, rocking mo- 
tion that seemed as though it must wring his head off, 
instead, one fist crept into his mouth, and he fixed his 
eyes on the fire with a wide, unwinking stare of con- 
tentment. 


3 


The Making of Jane 

“ Get up, Marion,” Janey went on, “ here’s my little 
chair by the fire, and here\s my doll ; come on/ 

This last suggestion seemed potent, and Marion 
opened her eyes. Janey helped her to her feet, and 
grasping Janey’s doll closely, she marched to the chair 
that was hastily put in place for her, and sat down 
smiling in a superior manner. 

“ Now dat’s right,” the nurse commented. “ En, 
Miss Janey, you en’ Mass Jimmy muss keep quiet, 
kase I bleeged to git dis baby to sleep ; I cahn set yer 
tell mawnin.” Then the baby having been joggled 
into renewed weariness, the chair once more began to 
groan and creak in a regular cadence ; the melancholy 
song was resumed — “ In dat day — in dat da-y-y,” 
and Jim and Janey tipped softly on from block to block. 
Slippery stepping-stones these were, over a deep and 
dreadful torrent, and a terrible lion lurking in the 
farthest, darkest corner, was slowly creeping after 
them ! How horrible was their peril, how they trem- 
bled, how their eyes grew big with excitement ! 

The evening darkened; the firelight became more 
pronounced ; the monotonous song went on and on in 
the warm, red gloom ; Marion was sound asleep in her 
little chair, and Janey and Jim were almost safe on the 
shore of the farthest trundle-bed, when the door opened 
softly and the mother came in. By nursery magic the 
first turn of the door-knob banished the lion and the 
flood, and the children ran safely to meet the visitor. 
She came to bring these elder ones down to supper. 

“ And you must be very good,” she whispered, “ for 
your cousin Henry, who sends you such beautiful pres- 

4 


The Making of Jane 

ents every Christmas, has just arrived; he came on the 
train, and will be here only for to-night, so you must be 
very good indeed.” 

“Oh, mother !” they whispered, just as excited as 
when crossing the torrent. 

“ Yes, and he wants Janey to go away with him,” 
looking down into the child’s wide-opened eyes that 
seemed to catch a gleam from the fire. Jim’s face fell. 
“ I want to go too,” he said. 

“Father’s only big boy?” the mother asked. “If 
Janey goes you’ll be the oldest one at home to help 
us. Marion and Tom are only little babies, you 
know.” 

“And you’ll let me go?” Janey queried breath- 
lessly ; “ for how long, mother ? ” 

The mother sighed. “ I don’t know, dear,” she said ; 
“ they want you for a long time. Cousin Henry and 
Cousin Jane have no little children.” 

The child clung to her in a sudden terror. “ But 
I’ll be your child all the time ? ” she pleaded. 

“ Of course, always, all the time, and you need not 
go unless you wish.” Then they went away, and as 
Janey softly closed the door, the melancholy song be- 
gan again and the creaking of the chair, and her eyes 
were filled with the slumberous red gloom of the bat- 
tered old nursery. 


5 


II 


“ Dear Heaven, how silly are the things that live 
In thickets, and eat berries ! I, also, 

A wild bird scarcely fledged, was brought to her cage, 

And she was there to meet me. Very kind. 

Bring the clean water; give out the fresh seed.” 

I T was a long journey, first into the sleepy old city 
where they had lunch, and where the maid at the 
hotel remarked that Jane’s hat was very old-fashioned 
to be travelling with such a rich gentleman. Then 
the gaudy sleeping-car that was to be their abiding 
place for the rest of the journey. Here Jane took her 
hat off. She looked at it critically. It was her very 
best hat, the one that had been kept in her mother’s 
wardrobe, and put on only on Sundays when there 
happened to be service within reach of the plantation. 
Then her father would drive them over, and all the 
negroes would be there, and the few white people who 
sat in the front benches. Such hard benches! Her 
best hat that still had about it a faint smell of dead 
rose-leaves. Her mother’s wardrobe always smelled 
of dead rose-leaves. 

“ Old-fashioned,” a “ rich gentleman.” She glanced 
at her cousin. He looked quite different from her 
father. He was fatter, he was younger ; his eyes were 
fat; his face was shiny, and there were no creases in 
his clothes, none anywhere ; his shoes, too, were differ- 
6 


The Making of Jane 

ent. A rich gentleman. She turned very red when her 
cousin caught her looking at him, and in her confusion 
dropped her hat. Mr. Saunders picked it up. “ What 
are you thinking ? ” he asked. 

“ The servant said that my hat was old-fashioned, 
and that you were a rich gentleman.” 

“So?” and he smiled kindly. “You shall have a 
new hat just as soon as we get to New York.” 

“ This is my best hat.” 

“ Now you shall have a better.” 

She took the hat. She did not know that the ribbon 
had been washed and ironed, she did not know that 
the extreme glistening quality of the uneven blackness 
of the straw was due to shoe-polish, she only knew 
that with breathless interest she had watched her 
mother trim it, had stood at her mother’s knee until 
it was finished, and had laughed with delight when it 
was put on her head, and her mother had kissed her, 
and she had gone proudly about the big old house 
seeking commendation. She smoothed the bows; the 
smell of the dead rose-leaves came to her again; she 
could see the big doors of the shining old wardrobe 
swing open, could see the many drawers with their 
brass handles, the piles of clothing and small boxes on 
the various shelves, the very folds of her mother’s 
dresses hanging in the side compartments moved be- 
fore her eyes. She spoke suddenly. “ I don’t want a 
new hat/’ she said. 

Mr. Saunders, roused from his paper, again smiled 
kindly. “ Oh ! why, yes, with roses on it and feathers, 
yes, and ribbons, wide ribbons.” 

7 


The Making of Jane 

Jane looked at him solemnly, then went back to the 
smoothing of the bows and he to his newspaper. 

It was a long, long journey, and at the end her little 
jacket was scarcely warm enough. Other little girls 
had come into the car, and with newly awakened views 
as to hats, Jane looked at theirs critically, then at her 
own. Gradually she began to be sorry for her hat, 
then for her jacket, then she found herself sitting with 
her feet tucked away, though encased in her best shoes, 
and wondering why her frock was so long. 

The second night she cried herself to sleep, and on 
the big crowded boat that took her over the great water 
at the end of the journey, she felt herself alone in all 
the world and different. Her heart swelled within 
her, and she did not dare to speak. The streets dazed 
her, and the rush and turmoil made her feel afraid. 
Then the house was so still, and Cousin Jane was so 
tall! She clung to Mr. Saunders, he had been good 
to her, he had been in her own home. Cousin Jane 
was beautiful; her eyes were shining and her cheeks 
were red ; yes, and her clothes were like the clothes in 
a picture-book; trailing like the princess in the fairy 
tales, but yet she was like a great big room at night and 
no light in it. The child clung to Mr. Saunders, got 
behind him, but Cousin Jane drew her away. Such 
white hands, such large hands she had, and they were 
so hard. She was kissed, then her hat was taken off 
and handed to the maid, her jacket followed. 

“ Put them in the parish closet,” Mrs. Saunders 
said, then, “ How old are you, Jane? ” 

“ Seven years on my birthday.” Her voice broke, 

8 


The Making of Jane 

and she hid her face in her little hands. The last birth- 
day was the one that she remembered, and on that day 
there had been a large ginger-cake and some molasses 
candy, and her mother had made her a new doll, the 
one with the pink calico frock on. 

“ You must not cry,” Mrs. Saunders said. “ You 
must be good ; where is your handkerchief ? ” 

“ I lost it.” 

Then her eyes were wiped with the softest handker- 
chief she had ever felt, and she and the handkerchief 
were both given over to a woman in a white cap and 
apron. 

“ She must be bathed and dressed at once,” Mrs. 
Saunders ordered, “ and her hair must be washed also, 
and carefully brushed. She has had her breakfast, 
Henry ? ” turning to Mr. Saunders, who was leaving 
the room. 

“ Of course.” 

“ Then,” to the maid, “ you will tell Simmons that 
Miss Jane’s luncheon is to be served in the nursery 
at twelve o’clock.” 

It was a large luxurious room in blue and white. 
Curtains, carpet, furniture, china, all in blue and white. 
A little book-shelf full of books, a doll-house comfort- 
ably furnished, with a family of well-dressed dolls 
seated in state ; a small rocking-chair, a low work-table 
with a little basket on it. There were other playthings 
too, and in a corner Jane’s trunk, which had come with 
them on the cab. 

The child was bewildered until she caught sight of 
the trunk, then her wonder centred around that. How 

9 


The Making of Jane 

small it looked, and how strange. What had happened 
to it, was it her trunk? She went close to it. Yes, 
there was “ Ormonde ” on the end, which she had 
spelled out so proudly for Jim’s benefit. What was 
the matter that it looked so small and old ? The maid 
had been given the key, and without more ado she pro- 
ceeded to open it, to toss the things out on the floor. 
At first she had looked at them critically, with one or 
two grunts, but only for a moment, then out every- 
thing came, carelessly, recklessly. The watching child 
seemed to see her mother’s slim white hands as they 
had folded and smoothed each thing into its place. 
She was afraid to speak. At the bottom she saw a box, 
she saw her cloth doll with the pink frock. 

“ There ! ” she cried, and seized one in each hand. 

“ Stop!” 

Jane’s answer was to put the things in the low rock- 
ing-chair and sit on them. The woman looked from 
where she kneeled by the trunk, and laughed. “ You 
are a crazy little piece,” she said. “ I don’t want your 
old things ; they’ll all go into the parish closet, I guess.” 

“ With my best hat ? ” 

“ With all you’ve brought.” 

“ What is that closet ? ” 

The woman was sitting back on her heels now, put- 
ting the different kinds of garments into separate piles. 
“ That closet is where Mrs. Saunders puts all the 
things she’s done with, to give to the poor.” 

“ All my clothes ? ” 

“ She’ll give you new ones.” 

The child’s eyes grew big with astonishment. She 


io 


The Making of Jane 

forgot the discomfort she was suffering of sitting on 
the hard box and the soft doll. Her mother was go- 
ing farther and farther away from her. What should 
she do! She could not write; her cousin would not 
take her back again. The world was an aching void, 
her life was desolate, and again she put her face down 
in her little hands and wept. 

“ That’s no good,” the maid went on, “ you’ll get 
better ones.” 

“ Mother made them.” 

“ ’Cause she had to ; she’ll be glad for you to have 
new ones, fine ones. Come, stop crying, Mrs. Saun- 
ders won’t like it.” 

“ Cousin Jane? ” 

“ Yes, I’m going to fix your bath now ; unbutton 
your clothes.” 

Left alone, the child wiped her eyes on her sleeve. 
She must save something from that dreadful closet. 
The woman would hear her if she opened a drawer, 
she could save only the box and the doll ! She looked 
about like a hunted creature, then the doll was thrust 
into the doll-house and the doors were shut, and the 
box was shoved under the dressing-table, in the mid- 
dle, far back against the wall. Her hands were trem- 
bling so that they would scarcely do their office, but 
she had a reasonable amount of clothing off before the 
maid returned. It was a tremendous scouring the lit- 
tle pink body was subjected to, and the tangles of her 
curly hair seemed endless. Her lunch was lonely, too ; 
she was lonelier still when the maid went down for her 
food, but the afternoon made ample amends in the 


II 


The Making of Jane 

shape of company. She was taken down to Mrs. 
Saunders’s dressing-room, where there were piles of 
boxes arriving, where garment after garment was tried 
on. She did not realize the fineness of them ; she was 
simply a doll that Mrs. Saunders and the maid were 
dressing and undressing, and discussing. Later the 
snow began to fall. She had read of it, had seen pict- 
ures of it; it was strange, it was dreadful, it would 
cover all the world, it would shut her far-off home 
away from her entirely ! 

Arrayed at last in everything new, she was left by 
the window, where she could watch this mysterious 
snow. All the street was wet at first, and black, then 
a little whiteness began to appear. It would be hope- 
less when all was covered. She had a frantic longing 
to rush away, down to the boat, to the train, away to 
her home before the snow blocked all the roads. She 
looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Saunders’s desk, where 
Mrs. Saunders was writing, was between her and the 
door. She turned back to the window, but she could 
not see. She drew her sleeve across her eyes. 

“Jane!” 

She started violently. 

“ There is a handkerchief in your pocket. You’ll 
ruin your new dress.” 

She found her handkerchief, but the tears had gone. 
She could now see every snow-flake as it fell. 

“ That’s a very untidy habit you have,” Mrs. Saun- 
ders went on ; “ you’ve done it twice already, and why 
are you crying? I’ve just bought you a quantity of 
new clothes.” 


12 


The Making of Jane 

“ The snow will cover the world.” 

“ But not you.” Mrs. Saunders was standing be- 
side her now. 

“ And all the roads, and all the engines and cars.” 

“ Your travelling is done.” 

There was use for the little handkerchief now, but 
Jane’s maid had come in, and Mrs. Saunders’s atten- 
tion was diverted. “ Have you finished ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Saunders.” 

“ Then take Miss Jane to her room. Hereafter she 
will breakfast down-stairs, and have her luncheon with 
us also. Her dinner will be served in the nursery. 
Each day after dinner, unless there are guests, she will 
come down-stairs for a little while. Kiss me, Jane; 
now go and play with your dolls, read your story-books, 
and later you will come down again. Make the best 
of your holiday, for your lessons will begin immedi- 
ately.” 

It was a long, long afternoon, the only happy mo- 
ment being when the maid leaving her for a little while, 
she looked under the dressing-table and saw that her 
box was safe, opened the doll-house and gave the de- 
faced cloth effigy a strangling hug. 

The lights and flowers, Mrs. Saunders’s brilliant 
dress and bare shoulders dazzled her when later on 
she was led into the dining-room. Her chair was 
placed next to Mr. Saunders, who drew her closer, 
patted her gently, and put chocolates on her plate. 
She could not swallow, but she managed to say “ Thank 
you ” with a look it took him long to forget. Then 
they went away in a carriage, and she, up to her bed. 
13 


The Making of Jane 

The light was turned low, the maid went out, closing 
the door; she would be back presently, she said. The 
child waited; the maid would be down all those long 
steps by this time. The covering was thrown off, the 
little bare feet sped across the floor, in a moment she 
was back again, covered and hidden, with the old doll 
safe in her arms. 


14 


Ill 


“ Children’s voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother's ear ; 

Children’s voices wild with pain — ” 

J ANE ! ” 

The sudden cessation of screams and scold- 
ing seemed to leave a vacuum in the room, and 
the dishevelled maid and the infuriated child seemed 
fixed in their places. 

“ What is it all about ? ” 

“ It’s about a dirty old rag doll,” the maid answered. 

“ It was a disgrace ” 

“ You story ! ” the child flared up. 

“ Jane!” 

“ And I threw it into the dust-barrel.” 

The child covered her face with her little hands and 
sobbed as if her heart would break. “ Mother made 
it — mother made it ! ” she wailed. 

“ And did you for that reason get into this fury ? 
And look at Fanny’s apron ; you have torn it to rib- 
bons, a new apron. I am ashamed of you ; I am very 
angry; come with me.” 

“ She bit me, too.” And the maid showed some 
red spots on her hand. 

“ Come.” And the child followed Mrs. Saunders 
from the room. 

The new experiences, the crowding sensations, the 
15 


The Making of Jane 

governess, the meting out of all time into sections 
which were all occupied, even to playing at stated 
hours, had made the days seem endless to the child. 
From her own stand-point, if she had been able to put 
it into words, she would have said that she had been 
hurried and harried, had been tormented, and withal 
had tried to be good. She liked the dancing-school 
where the teacher praised her. She liked the gym- 
nasium that reminded her of climbing trees, of swing- 
ing from the grape-vines, and of dropping suddenly 
to the infinite terror of her old nurse. But the lessons, 
those everlasting lessons, were weariness and pain. 
French and German — French and German, and thump- 
ing on a piano, when the only thing she wanted to learn 
was to write. To write to her father and mother. 
And she was weary of the dressing and undressing, of 
the stupid walks. Yet, of what use were play hours 
to her? She would sit on the floor in front of the 
doll-house and look at it. Not one article of furniture 
had been moved, not one member of that orderly fam- 
ily had ever been out of place. They were strangers, 
while the old, battered, smirched image of cloth was 
held close in her arms. She had not taken root, she 
would not fit into her environment. She held aloof, 
declaring to herself that some day she would go, some 
day when she could write to her father to come for 
her. Her trunk was gone, and her clothes, but so 
much the quicker her father could pick her up and run 
with her, and her mother would make her some more 
clothes. The old doll knew all about it, and would go 
too. 


1 6 


The Making of Jane 

She had, also, lost some of her awe of her surround- 
ings, of the governess, of the maid, they who hurried 
and harried her, and sometimes she would turn in im- 
potent fury and try to wreak her little vengeance, which 
outbreaks were all duly reported. Still Mrs. Saunders 
declared that the child was undemonstrative. Down- 
stairs she was as still as it was possible to be, and Mr. 
Saunders was troubled. But now a climax had ar- 
rived. By chance Mrs. Saunders had come on the 
scene when the greatest of all the battles was being 
fought, when the struggle was going hopelessly against 
the child, when the maid could show rags and wounds, 
and the child seemed to have no cause. A climax 
when Mrs. Saunders, once for all, would arbitrate. 

Down-stairs into the library they marched, and the 
door was shut. “ Sit there.” And while the child 
edged on to one of the tall chairs, Mrs. Saunders took 
her seat near the table. 

“ I am sorry to tell you, Jane,” she began, “ that 
I am finding you to be a very troublesome little child ; 
and if I were not sorry for your father and mother, I 
would send you home at once.” 

The child sobbed a little. 

“ Hush ! I cannot have any crying ; I cannot stand 
it. I have given you a number of beautiful dolls, your 
Cousin Henry has given you a beautiful doll-house; 
you have everything that a child can possibly want, 
and yet, because the maid throws away a dirty old rag 
doll, which, as she says, was a disgrace to your room, 
you fly into a fury and bite and scratch like a little cat.” 

“ Mother made it ! ” the child cried. 


The Making of Jane 

“ Yes, and she made all of your clothes ; but I have 
given them away.” 

“ And I cried then,” the child insisted. 

“ And should have been punished then. Now, how- 
ever, you must hear the truth and try to realize certain 
things. First, that what did for you at home, will not 
do for you here, and that I cannot have my house lit- 
tered up with things that are unsuitable; second, that 
I am finding you to be very bad-tempered. I have just 
received a letter from your mother, and in it there is 
a letter for you. I took it in to read to you, and found 
you fighting the maid. As a punishment, you shall 
not hear it all, but only this little bit ; listen — ‘ And, 
little daughter/ ” she read, “ ‘ you must be very gentle 
and very obedient, and always remember how good 
your cousins are to give you such beautiful things, and 
to have teachers for you, and to take care of you. If 
you wish to make your mother happy, you must be 
gentle and obedient.” 

The child’s head drooped. 

“ It would have broken her heart to have seen you 
just now,” Mrs. Saunders went on. “ I have taken 
you because your father and mother are too poor ” 

The child looked up quickly. “ We’ve got a big 
house, and a big plantation,” she interrupted, fiercely, 
“ and servants, and a plenty to eat ! ” 

“ But your mother could not send you to school,” 
Mrs. Saunders went on, “ and your little brothers and 
sisters will not have all that you have. When you are 
older you will understand that your father and mother 
struggle very hard to provide for their children, and 
18 


The Making of Jane 

to help them I have taken you off their hands. I 
should not have told you this if you had not driven 
me to it by your bad behavior ; but I see that you must 
be made to understand your position, and what I am 
trying to do for you. I wish to educate you and bring 
you up as a lady should be brought up, and how do you 
reward me ? By being so bad that I can scarcely keep 
a maid for you. I am very angry, and if you had any 
money, I should make you pay Fanny for her apron; 
it would make you remember. ,, 

“ I have some money.’" And the little head went up 
proudly. 

“ Where is it?” 

“ In my drawer — in my work-box.” 

“ Show it to me.” 

The child slipped down from her chair, and Mrs. 
Saunders followed her up-stairs into the room where 
Fanny, who was straightening the things disarranged 
by the recent fray, paused in her work to watch devel- 
opments. The child opened the top drawer, and, run- 
ning her little hand down under everything, even under 
the white paper that covered the bottom of the drawer, 
she pulled out a small key. She kneeled down on the 
floor, and from away back under the dressing-table she 
drew forth the painted little wooden box, so long hid- 
den. Her hands were trembling so that the contents 
of the box rattled, and hastily, as if fearing the failure 
of her courage, she unlocked the box, and, opening it, 
a spool of thread, a little thimble, a paper of needles, a 
pair of scissors, a new cake of soap, still in wrappings, 
and a silver dollar were discovered. She paused a 
19 


The Making of Jane 

moment, as if to gather up her self-control ; it was as 
if she were taking the coverings from off her heart, 
and putting it out bare and quivering for the wind to 
blow on ; then, without raising her head, she took the 
coin and held it up to Mrs. Saunders. 

“ No, you must give it to Fanny yourself, and ask 
her pardon.” 

There was a pause, and the upraised little hand did 
not move. 

“ You must obey me, or I must write and tell your 
poor mother how bad you are, and how disobedient. 
It will almost break her heart.” 

A second longer the child waited, then, putting the 
box down on the floor, she got up and walked toward 
the maid, but without looking at her. 

“ I don’t want your money,” the woman said. 

“ I wish you to take it,” Mrs. Saunders ordered. 
“ Jane has torn your apron and I wish her to replace it, 
even though I provide your aprons. I wish her to re- 
member, and to learn to control her temper. Now 
say ‘ I’m sorry, Fanny.’ ” 

The child put the money into the woman’s hand, but 
did not say the words. 

“ Say ‘ I’m sorry, Fanny,’ ” Mrs. Saunders repeated. 
Instead, the child turned and took the box from the 
floor. 

“ Give it to me.” And Mrs. Saunders’s hand closed 
on it. “ I don’t wish you to keep things locked up and 
hidden,” she went on, “ and you do not need this soap.” 
She put the box on the dressing-table, threw the key 
into the waste-basket, and handed the soap to the maid. 


20 


The Making of Jane 

“ Scented soap is not good for a child’s skin ; take it, 
Fanny, and go. Have you anything else hidden?” 

Jane shook her head. 

“ Who gave you that soap ? ” 

“ Mother.” 

“ Who gave you that money ? ” 

“ Father.” 

“ Have you any more ? ” 

“ No, ma’am.” 

“ Don’t say ‘ ma’am,’ that is like a servant ; say ‘ No, 
cousin.’ ” 

" No, cousin.” 

“ Will you tell Fanny that you are sorry? ” 

There was a moment’s pause, then the child broke 
out with, “ I’m not sorry — I never will be sorry ! I 
hate her ! ” And throwing her hands up in a wild 
gesture of despair, she cast herself on the floor. “ I 
hate everybody ! ” she cried ; “ and I want to go home — 
I want to go home ! ” Mrs. Saunders let the paroxysm 
pass, then, lifting the child, seated her well back in an 
arm-chair. “ I shall leave you here until I come back ; 
and stop wiping your eyes on your sleeve. Where is 
your handkerchief ? But wait.” And crossing to the 
wash-stand, she wet a sponge and wiped the child’s 
tear-stained face and dried it with a towel. “ You 
must stay here until you are a better child,” she said ; 
and regulating the heat, she went out, closing the door 
behind her. 

She went too fast, perhaps, to hear the child’s sobs — 
her room was too far away, perhaps, to hear them, the 
deep, hopeless sobs that went on and on as if they would 


21 


The Making of Jane 

never stop. Terrible sobs to come from the heart of 
a little child. The miseries of her present life had 
culminated. All the things she had borne, all the les- 
sons she hated, all the lonely dinners, all the stupid 
walks, all Fanny’s allusions to her clothes in the parish 
closet, all the careless laughter at her different ways 
and training — all seemed now to roll back on her ; now 
when her only confidant, her only companion had been 
thrown into the dust-barrel; now when her box, so 
carefully hidden, so watchfully removed on “ sweep- 
ing days,” had been overhauled. For in revealing her 
secret treasures she had practically lost them. The 
sweet soap her mother had given her had been scorned ; 
the money her father had slipped into her hand at part- 
ing was gone; the old doll, playing with which she 
could imagine that Jim or Marion would soon come 
in ; the doll that could remember the nursery, and the 
red fire, and the' chair that creaked and groaned, had 
been cast away ! 

And her father and mother were poor, had given 
her away because they were poor; maybe even now 
they were wanting that very dollar; maybe they had 
given her their last money; oh, if only she could go 
back to see for herself ! And she could not write, she 
could not tell them anything but what her cousin would, 
she could not hear anything but what her cousin chose 
to read. 

“ Oh, mother, mother ! ” she wailed ; then the sobs 
went on and on. Weaker after awhile, and fainter as 
the day darkened down into the sudden wan, snowy 
winter darkness. Slower and slower, until the curly 
22 


The Making of Jane 

head drooped sidewise, and the heavy eyelids closed. 
Asleep, with the long, sobbing breaths still coming at 
intervals, the last echoes of the storm. 

But the tear-stained, troubled little face grew calmer 
presently, then a smile parted the lips. Perhaps she 
was back in the battered old nursery playing in the red 
fire-lighted dusk; perhaps the monotonously creaking 
chair and the melancholy song were soothing her — 
“ In dat day — in dat da-y-y.” Perhaps her mother 
would come in presently and say : “ My little daughter, 
your cousins want you to go away with them. ,, But 
no, that would have wakened her. 


23 


IV 


“ I lived on and on, 

As if my heart were kept beneath a glass 
And everybody stood, all eyes and ears, 

To see and hear it tick.” 

F ANNY repented before the next day, but it was 
too late. She tried to return the dollar, but Jane 
pushed it away coldly. She would not any more talk 
to the woman, nor had she any words for the gov- 
erness. Her lessons were done much better than ever 
before, she was absolutely quiet under the brushing 
of her curls, the dressing and undressing, but her in- 
structors said that the spirit had gone out of her danc- 
ing and gymnastic exercises, and in her play-time, 
though she still sat in front of the open doll-house, 
and though her arms were empty of their battered 
treasure, she no more than before played with the new 
dolls. 

A great change had come over her, and she was 
developing at a cruel rate. Poor meant that people 
had no money. Her father and mother were poor, 
her father had no money to travel to where she was. 
She had seen her Cousin Henry pay for the tickets, and 
he had taken out a great deal of money. Her father 
could never come for her. And she had no money, 

24 


The Making of Jane 

she could not travel either; she would have to stay 
where she was. Once the governess, in rebuking her, 
had said, “ Your cousin pays me for teaching you, and 
you ought to study.” Teachers were paid. And Fanny 
had said : “ You are so bad Mrs. Saunders will have 
to pay me more.” Maids were paid. She would learn 
how to be a maid, she would learn how to be a 
teacher; she would go out and dress and undress chil- 
dren, would teach children, would be paid money. 
But she would have to wait, wait so long. And as 
whatever she loved was taken from her — Fanny had 
taken her doll, Mrs. Saunders had taken her other 
things — they should not know any more what she 
loved, what she was going to do; she would not talk 
to them. 

The weeks went by, and Mrs. Saunders said that 
she had never seen a child improve as Jane had im- 
proved. Mr. Saunders, looking at the child, asked 
that he instead of the maid might take the child for 
her walks. He took her down to the shopping dis- 
trict, and he did not stop to converse with policemen, 
and Jane found this a great improvement; besides, 
he stopped at the shop-windows and showed her pretty 
things. He gave her an ice, then some money for 
candy. The child’s face lighted up and her little hand 
grasped the coin. 

“ I’ll keep it,” she said, in an excited whisper. 

How strange that a little child should love money, 
and Mr. Saunders thought much about it. If he had 
followed her up-stairs, had watched her slip into the 
nursery noiselessly, so that Fanny might not be at- 
25 


The Making of Jane 

tracted from the next room; had seen with what 
eagerness and quiet she abstracted a doll’s trunk from 
the doll-house and slipped the money down into the 
bottom of it, under the clothes of the mother of the 
family; had seen her lock it, looking cautiously over 
her shoulder, and hide the key under the corner of 
the carpet, he would have been more thoughtful still; 
might have understood retrospectively the pondering 
silence of the child during the walk home when she 
was laying her little plans for concealment; was re- 
flecting that Fanny locked up the doll-house on sweep- 
ing-days, that the carpet was nailed to the floor. If 
he had known how much more restful her sleep was 
that night, soothed by the thought that she had begun 
to save money, he would have crowded her little hands 
with money. But he was satisfied that he had, for a 
moment at least, taken from her eyes the look that 
had come there since her improvement had begun to 
be talked about. A look that troubled him at odd 
times when he was not especially occupied or inter- 
ested, a look that made him ask in what way the child 
had improved. She was yielding to treatment, his 
wife answered, she was far more diligent, far more 
happy, having at last begun to dust her doll-house, 
to pack and unpack the little trunks. 

Fanny, however, gave warning. The cold, un- 
broken silence of the child, her reserved dignity was 
too much for the woman. Charm she never so wisely, 
the child did not once relax. When Mrs. Saunders 
questioned the woman there was found no ground for 
complaint. The child was good now, was obedient, 
26 


The Making of Jane 

but the place did not suit and Fanny packed up. 
At the last she stepped into the nursery. “ Good-by/’ 
she said. 

“ Good-by,” Jane answered, but did not turn her 
head. 

“ I didn’t keep your dollar,” Fanny went on ; “ I 
put it in the poor-box long ago, where it will help 
orphan children.” 

Jane continued to dust the doll-house. 

“Won’t you shake hands with me?” 

The child turned and looked at her. There was a 
stately poise in the little figure and an infinite con- 
tempt in the pose of the head. “You knew that I 
loved my poor old doll,” she said. 

Mr. Saunders, meanwhile, did not forget the light 
that had come into Jane’s face when he had given her 
the money, and he tried the experiment again. Candy, 
nor dolls, nor toys brought anything but quiet thanks, 
lady-like little words that she had been taught to say, 
but the smallest piece of money made her eyes shine 
and the color come into her cheeks. He could not 
understand it; a boy he could have comprehended 
perfectly, but female creatures were strange; his wife, 
this child were problems. Since it pleased her, how- 
ever, “ candy-money ” became a regular thing between 
them ; quietly pressed into the little hand at odd times, 
while he watched the light that came into her eyes 
and the color that sprang to her cheeks. 

One day in the late spring Mrs. Saunders got a 
letter. Jane was with her when she read it. There 
was an exclamation of impatience, the letter was torn 
27 


The Making of Jane 

up instantly, and Jane was sent to her nursery. The 
next thing they were on their way to Europe. This 
was the arranged plan for the summer; Mrs. Saun- 
ders had only insisted on going a week sooner. 

Another great big water between her and her home, 
and Mr. Saunders found Jane crying. She did not 
give any very satisfactory answers to his questions, 
however. She did not like to travel, she said, and 
would they come back again? Of course, at the end 
of the summer they would return, and some day they 
would go down to see her father and mother. Mrs. 
Saunders had come up behind them. “ Not until Jane 
has proved herself a hard student,” she said; “has 
learned her French and German thoroughly.” 

Later, Mr. Saunders agreed not to mention going 
home to the child. “ I have spent a great deal on 
her,” his wife declared; “she has just begun to drop 
her wild, uncivilized ways, and I cannot allow her to 
go back to where she will pick them all up again. If 
I am to train this child, and be responsible for her, 
she must stay in my environment. You wished to 
help your cousin, and of course this child was named 
after me in expectation that I would do something for 
her. I have consented to do it, and in so consenting 
have acted entirely to please others ; am working and 
spending entirely for the benefit of others. But if you 
wish to keep Jane, she must be kept on my conditions, 
and one is that you must not mention her going home 
again. I insist on this.” 

In Paris there came a dreadful day. Forwarded let- 
ters reached them, and Jane was sent out to walk with 
28 


The Making of Jane 

the maid. “ The sooner you tell her the better ,” Mr. 
Saunders said, “ and here in Paris we can divert her.” 

“ But no mourning,” Mrs. Saunders stipulated. 
“Her outfit is perfectly new, and by next season it 
will be outgrown — will be out of fashion. I doubt 
if she knows about mourning. Will you tell her, 
Henry?” 

Mr. Saunders turned away hastily. “ Not for the 
world; I could not stand her eyes.” 

His wife looked up at him. “ Her eyes? ” 

“ Ever since she began to improve her eyes have 
hurt me like the devil, that’s all,” then he went away. 

“ I want you, Jane,” Mrs. Saunders said when the 
child came in. “ When you have taken off your things, 
come here.” There was a letter in her hand, and Jane 
made what haste the maid would permit; the only let- 
ters that concerned her came from home. 

“ I have talked to you a great deal about self-con- 
trol,” Mrs. Saunders began, “ about how well-bred 
people control their tempers and feelings. How it 
is only common people, servants and the like, who 
scream and cry aloud. That ladies and gentlemen 
should bear the pain of death, if necessary, without a 
sound, and I think that you have heeded; I think 
that in the six months that you have been with me 
you have learned a great deal of self-control; you are 
becoming a well-bred little lady.” 

“ My mother never screams or cries,” Jane said. 

“And what did she do when you screamed and 
cried? ” 

The child’s eyes met hers unflinchingly, but the lit- 

29 


The Making of Jane 

tie lips were shut tight. Mrs. Saunders’s eyes flashed, 
and the color deepened in her face. 

“ This is your first impertinence for a long time,” 
she said, coldly, “ and on that account I will forgive 
you; besides, I have something to tell you that will 
pain you very much, will show if you have really any 
self-control.” She had taken the child’s hands and had 
drawn her close to her knees, and her eyes looked into 
the child’s eyes. “ Your brother James ” 

“ Jim,” the child corrected. 

“Jim,” Mrs. Saunders repeated, “has been very ill; 
has been suffering, but now he is well again, and 
has no more pain, because the good God has taken him 
up to heaven.” 

There was no answer, and the child’s eyes did not 
move. 

“ James ” 

“ Jim,” the child corrected once more, her lips seem- 
ing to open and shut automatically. 

“Jim is dead.” 

The child did not stir, her eyes still looked un- 
movedly into Mrs. Saunders’s eyes. Death had never 
come near her before, and she was bewildered. Some- 
thing had happened to Jim, and the little hands grew 
icy in Mrs. Saunders’s grasp. 

“ You hear me, Jane? ” 

“ Yes, cousin.” 

“ You understand? ” 

The child drew her hands away and looked at them. 
“ I don’t know,” she answered; “ may I go now?” 

She met Mr. Saunders in the hall, but she hurried 
30 


The Making of Jane 

past him, scarcely pausing while he pressed a little 
package into her hand. Mrs. Saunders’s maid was sit- 
ting in the child’s room, so the child sat down too. 
She did not understand; she was in a maze of doubt 
and misery. It was not that she wished to cry, no, 
nor scream, but a great weight was on her. Jim had 
gone ; God had taken him. If she should go home 
now Jim would not be there. Nobody to play with 
but Marion. What would her mother do; she had 
called Jim her only big boy. She could not think of the 
big nursery without Jim; she could not think of any- 
thing at home without Jim. She would have liked to 
ask some questions, but she never spoke to Mrs. Saun- 
ders unless she was spoken to. She had always been 
afraid; she had never lost the sense that Mrs. Saun- 
ders was like a big dark room, and at last the main 
thing was that Jim had gone. A pain came, she did 
not know where it was, nor what it meant, but it was 
a pain as if she wanted to cry and could not. She felt 
in her pocket, yes, she had a handkerchief, so that if 
she did cry she would not wipe her eyes on her sleeve; 
but the tears did not come, and the pain stayed. 

“ I need not have told her,” Mrs. Saunders said to 
her husband; “ I do not think that she has the slight- 
est comprehension of the matter; and why should she 
have; what can death mean to a child like that? If 
she were at home now, where she could miss him, it 
would be quite different. It would have been better 
not to have told her at all. As it was, I did not en- 
courage any expression of feeling on her part; there 
is a great deal in not making children excitable. I 
3i 


The Making of Jane 

hope that I shall have the strength of mind to follow 
my own judgment in the future; it is stupid to tell 
children such things.” 

“ If you had not hastened our sailing,” Mr. Saun- 
ders was reading the letter over, “ she could have gone 
home, as her father begs. A letter before this one must 
have been lost.” 

There was a moment’s pause, then Mrs. Saunders 
said : “ Sometimes I wonder, I am puzzled to know 
why I consented to take this child; possibly novelty, 
certainly duty; but this I do know, that if I am to 
keep her, I am to have her entirely. If we had heard 
in time, sending her home would have broken up all 
my summer plans, and I doubt if the child would have 
returned to us. Your cousins seem to be hopelessly 
sentimental, and all that I have spent on the child 
would have been wasted, which is not to be contem- 
plated patiently. And please remember that I am to 
answer that letter, even though it is to you. You hate 
to write letters, and as you did not break the news to 
the child you cannot tell them how she took it. By the 
way, I hope Colby will not talk to her about it. Call 
Colby, will you? She sits in Jane’s room. Order a 
carriage, and after lunch we can take the child to drive.” 

She need not have been afraid, for Jane had no 
words for the maid. She sat quite still in the low 
chair in the proper little way she had been taught, and 
puzzled, and wondered, and suffered. Colby had twice 
reminded her that she had a package in her hand, but 
she had made no answer. She had grown to be very 
cautious with regard to the packages which her Cousin 
32 


The Making of Jane 

Henry gave her; somewhere in them she was almost 
sure to find a coin that would be transferred to the 
doll’s trunk which Jane had slipped in among her 
clothes while Colby was packing. And now, Colby 
having gone, the child opened the little package. A 
purse, and in it a yellow coin. She looked at it curi- 
ously for a moment, then she closed the door of the 
room softly, took out the doll’s trunk, and proceeded 
to put all the money into the new purse, feeling very 
glad because that the little collection was beginning 
to rattle. The trunk replaced, the momentary interest 
gone, the thought of Jim came back to her. Gone to 
Heaven. She went to the window. Heaven was in 
the sky, but she could see no sky — walls opposite and 
near, and a deep courtyard. 

Lunch was long, the drive was long, the night was 
long in coming, and even after the night had come 
her sobs had to be hidden under her pillow. A cloud 
had come over her inner life, and from this time a 
change came over her outer life also. It may have 
been that what Mr. Saunders had said about the child’s 
eyes had opened Mrs. Saunders’s own eyes; it may 
have been that the barely escaped summons for the 
child to go home had made Mrs. Saunders realize that 
the child’s non-understanding of motives might cause 
a very unflattering portrait of herself to be drawn ; it 
may have been, as Mrs. Saunders declared that it was, 
that some remarks of Mrs. Kennet’s were really the 
source of the change; but, whatever it was, something 
made that day and drive an era in Jane’s life. 

“ Mrs. Kennet saw us out driving,” Mrs. Saunders 

33 


The Making of Jane 

reported to her husband, “ and this afternoon at Ma- 
dame Schamoynsky’s she asked me all sorts of ques- 
tions about Jane. She is coming to call on my first 
afternoon at home, and mainly, I believe, on account 
of the child. And it does seem queer to have a child 
with you of whom you say nothing; Mrs. Kennet in- 
timated as much; so I shall have the child with me 
more. I have always intended bringing her up in this 
way, but at first she made me uneasy; now, however, 
that she has learned to speak only when she is spoken 
to, it will be possible to have her down-stairs — even to 
take her about in the afternoon. At home, in the win- 
ter, of course it will be different, but even there I can 
have her with me more.” 

Thus it was that everywhere they went, hiring villas, 
or ensconced in suites of apartments, moving in the 
edges of foreign society, or meeting scores of Ameri- 
can friends — everywhere, Jane was put on show. Ex- 
quisitely dressed, she would be allowed to wander 
about the reception-rooms until guests appeared, then, 
“ Jane, dearie,” and she would be presented, “ My lit- 
tle cousin who has come to live with us, or rather my 
husband’s little cousin; but she has come to seem so 
much my own that I do not always remember that she 
is not. Here, little Jane, hand this cup of tea.” After 
this would come bon-bons and caresses, holding the 
child very close against hard whalebones, smoothing 
her curls, pressing her hands. It had been something 
of a shock at first; Jane had not understood it, but she 
had learned to obey implicitly, and did not flinch. 

The women to whom all this would be said seemed 

34 


The Making of Jane 

always to the child to look at her in a far-away, ques- 
tioning manner, with sometimes a smile in their eyes, 
and Jane made no advances. The men behaved quite 
differently; they smiled on her kindly, all save old Mr. 
DeLong, who looked pretty much as the women did; 
and frequently boxes of bon-bons, for Jane especially, 
would be presented. Then Mrs. Saunders would, with 
much eagerness, help the child to open them, and with 
little exclamations of delight would explain to Jane 
her good fortune; and the men would be thanked and 
smiled on, and more caresses would come to Jane. 

If Jane did not understand the caresses, however, 
she did sometimes understand the talk enough to know 
that Mrs. Saunders was explaining that her father was 
poor; understood enough to send the blood with a 
rush to her face that was usually hidden in the falls 
of lace about Mrs. Saunders’s bosom and shoulders. 

“ The old, old story,” Mrs. Saunders would say, “ of 
a large Southern family and an absent income. Plenty 
of land and ancestors, plenty of mahogany and an- 
tiquated books, of pride and sentiment; the story that 
we so often hear from the South — marrying on faith 
and bringing up a large family on rice. So we have 
taken this little one, little Jane, salvage from the fam- 
ily wreck.” Once she had been holding Jane’s two 
hands in one of hers as the child sat beside her, grad- 
ually drawing them over toward herself, while she 
talked, talked, talked of Jane’s governess, Jane’s danc- 
ing, Jane’s gymnastics. Presently, the hand farthest 
away from her was dropped, the other was laid down 
on her lap and held there for a moment, then she patted 

35 


The Making of Jane 

it gently, and took up her cup of tea. Jane had made 
no reciprocal movement; she had sat quite still, and 
now was looking at her hand thoughtfully, when, in- 
explicably, and in the very middle of Mrs. Saunders’s 
declaration that she and Jane were great chums, the 
old lady who was calling, laughed. “ It is your own 
hand, child,” she said ; “ take it back if you want to.” 

Jane looked up quickly, the color rose in Mrs. Saun- 
ders’s face, but she smiled, and repeated: “ Quite 
chums, dear Miss Witting,” and patted the unmoved 
hand once more. 

Jane had no explanation for this new state of things, 
but she soon became accustomed to it — to the insinua- 
tions concerning her father’s poverty, to bon-bons and 
ices, to watching people’s faces and forming judgments 
about them and their clothes, to trying to follow them 
when suddenly they would drop into French or Ger- 
man, and even to hearing people say : “ Dear Mrs. 
Saunders, how unselfish to take into your life such a 
care, such a responsibility; but then you are always 
so very, very good.” The first time Jane had turned 
and looked up at Mrs. Saunders, who was shaking her 
head deprecatingly and smiling almost sadly. She had 
never before thought of Mrs. Saunders as good, and 
presently, Mrs. Saunders, seeing her expression, had 
sent her away to play. 

It was a strange life to the child, and she drew some 
odd, unvarnished conclusions which it would never 
have done to repeat. She wondered, too, over the 
dearth of home letters, and at the smallness of the bits 
that were read to her. In return she was allowed 
36 


The Making of Jane 

to dictate letters under Mrs. Saunders’s instructions. 
“ Dear Mother and Father:” these letters would be- 
gin, then pause. 

“ Tell them what a beautiful house you are living 
in.” 

“ We are living in a beautiful house now ” 

“ With marble floors,” suggested Mrs. Saunders, 
“ called a villa.” 

“ With marble floors, and cousin calls it a villa ” 

“ Think of something yourself now.” 

“ I don’t like French ” 

“That is not pleasant; you who are having such a 
delightful time should tell them all the happy things. 
Their lives are so dull, and they are so poor, and work 
so hard, that you should not trouble them with your 
little tempers. You should like your education; you 
should be as thankful as your mother and father are 
for the things I am doing for you. You ought to like 
French. Now tell them something pleasant. If you 
want to make them happy, tell them that you are 
happy, that you like to be with your Cousin Henry.” 

“ Cousin Henry gives me dolls ” 

“And what do I give you?” 

“ — and cousin gives me bon-bons and cakes in the 
afternoons, and I dress very fine, and see all the com- 
pany “ Janey.” 

“ Is that all you have to say?” 

“ Yes, cousin.” 

“ Won’t you send your love to anyone? ” 

The child shook her head; then Mrs. Saunders 
wrote: “I am so happy — your loving child — Janey.” 

37 


The Making of Jane 

These letters were all her intercourse with her home ; 
beyond this she never mentioned her parents, never 
told of what her life had been, and since the day when 
the news of his death came she had never alluded to 
Jim. Very vividly he had been with her for a while, 
then gradually he had receded from her life, but not 
any more than Marion had done, or Tom. She had 
ceased to cry for her mother, reasoning that her mother 
and father had sent her to Mrs. Saunders, and that 
Mrs. Saunders would not let her go. Children so 
helpless so soon accept the inevitable, and the present 
state of things seemed inevitable to Jane, her only 
protest being that she still put by her bits of money — 
a blind little effort at something, she did not know 
what. She was helpless, and, though she did not know 
it, she was hopeless as well. 

Back again to New York and the routine there — 
lessons, dancing-school, gymnasium. She was being 
taught everything that a lady should know, all the 
accomplishments that would set her forth in life; but 
now, instead of walks with Mr. Saunders on free 
afternoons, she was taken about with Mrs. Saunders. 
Weeks went into months, months went into years, 
many of which were spent abroad. Jane had learned 
to write at last, but even then her early letters were 
always overlooked, edited in fact, by Mrs. Saunders, 
after which Jane made “ A fair copy to please her dear 
mother by her progress,” and before that stage of her 
correspondence was passed she had been so drilled as 
to the virtue of pleasant things, had become so habitu- 
ated to the life about her — to the idea that Mrs. Saun- 
38 


The Making of Jane 

ders owned her, that to stay where she was was her 
duty — that she never made mention of any desire to 
return home, expressed no longings, told nothing that 
she really felt. Sometimes when her father or mother 
would write as to her paying them a visit, promises 
would be made readily and pleasantly by Mrs. Saun- 
ders, and at first Jane’s heart had leaped up, but 
gradually she came to know that something was sure 
to intervene. Mr. Saunders’s gout, or Mrs. Saunders’s 
system, or Jane’s own body, that to the child felt per- 
fectly healthy, would demand baths, or treatment, or 
a certain climate, and always across the water. She 
pondered much, but she made no comment; she had 
come to feel that peace was the most desirable thing 
in life, and that it was better to leave the veils down 
over Mrs. Saunders’s excuses. Not that she ever 
worded these conclusions or reasoned them out; she 
arrived at them by instinct, and the same instinct bade 
her heed them. 

At last school-days were done, and Mrs. Saunders, 
viewing Jane critically, decided that she was a most 
successful specimen of young ladyhood. “All her 
training and all her grooming is showing now,” she 
said to herself, “ and next winter she will make a stir. 
A reception, a series of dinners, and the opera-box will 
do it,” and she felt herself entering on an exciting 
game where the stakes were high. The summer be- 
fore all this, however, should be spent at an American 
watering-place, where the girl would meet young peo- 
ple she would be apt to know again in the winter. This 
place must be carefully selected, and Jane must be held 

39 


The Making of Jane 

well in hand. Meanwhile they were in Paris, making 
last purchases for the summer campaign, and in a shop 
they met an acquaintance whom Jane remembered 
vividly as the old woman who had bidden her reclaim 
her own hand. She remembered every line in her face, 
every gleam in her eyes. 

“ My dear Miss Witting! ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Saunders ! ” Then in unison : 
“Where have you been all these years?” 

At lunch Mrs. Saunders said to her husband : “ I 
met old Miss Witting this morning looking a hun- 
dred, and travelling with that nephew Mark.” 

“John Witting’s son?” 

“Yes; will he inherit, do you think?” 

Mr. Saunders shook his head. “ Can’t say; nobody 
can say; the old woman is so peculiar and such a skin- 
flint. She has loads of money, however, and John 
Witting’s son won’t be above hanging around to get 
what he can; that is, if he is like his father.” 

“ She asked me to let her bring him to call,” Mrs. 
Saunders went on. 

“ Of course, and he may be a nice fellow; the old 
woman may be taking him around for her own pleas- 
ure.” 

“She is eternally old,” Mrs. Saunders declared, 
“ and her head waggles ridiculously. I think she must 
have a touch of palsy.” 

The next afternoon Miss Witting came with her 
nephew, and Mr. Saunders escaping, the quartette sat 
down, the old woman and the young man, one on each 
side of the table where Jane was making tea. 

40 


The Making of Jane 

“ Well-behaved young people are a great comfort,” 
the old woman began, bobbing her head at Jane, “ and 
you’ve done well, Mrs. Saunders, to provide yourself 
with a daughter. Maria Kennet talked to me about 
this young woman some time ago, and Maria Kennet 
is very critical.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Kennet has been always deeply inter- 
ested in Jane, and I’m so glad; a young girl needs 
friends when she first faces the world.” 

“ So she’s coming out? ” 

“ Next winter; yes, at home.” 

“ And what will you do this summer? ” 

“ I have not decided yet, dear Miss Witting. I’m 
hunting for a place that has all the virtues. I wish 
Jane to see a little of society before next winter, but 
not too much. Heretofore she has seen only my 
friends, now she must be thrown with younger people.” 

“Why don’t you come to Hillside Springs? Most 
conservative and exclusive; you’ve been there?” 

“ Yes, but not for many years.” 

“ I go there,” Miss Witting went on, “ because of 
my old friend Mrs. Creswick — she lives there all the 
year round, you know.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Creswick, she was a great friend of my 
mother’s. She lost her money, did she not? ” 

“ No, oh, no ! Much of it is in mines about which 
there is litigation, that is all; and once that is over 
she will be richer than ever before, enormously rich. 
Her grandson, Laurence — you know of him? — lives 
with her the half of every year, which is quite remark- 
able, I think, for a young man of great wealth.” 

4i 


The Making of Jane 

“Most remarkable; lives with her — what a happi- 
ness! ” 

“ I did not say entirely, but he is there every sum- 
mer; another case of well-behaved young people being 
a great comfort to old people.” 

“ Yes, and Laurence must be very rich.” 

“Very, my dear, and so steady — almost too quiet 
to be interesting.” 

Jane had listened dutifully until the young man on 
her other side spoke to her. “ You are sailing very 
soon?” he asked. 

“ Yes.” Then the name of the vessel was given, 
and the discovery made that he also intended taking 
passage on that very steamer, but would not board her 
until she reached Queenstown, his aunt intending to 
go to Ireland. “ How very pleasant,” he went on, 
“ unless you are ill.” 

“ Never.” 

“ How fortunate.” 

“ In what, Mr. Witting? ” and Mrs. Saunders turned 
toward him. 

“ In not being ill at sea.” 

“ Yes, she is never ill, while I — poor me — I go to 
my cabin before the ship stirs, and stay there until she 
stops. To comfort me, my husband and Jane come 
down three times a day to say how delightful every- 
thing is and what fine appetites they have. But I do 
myself injustice; it is a comfort to hear of the joy of 
others, you know that, dear Miss Witting — all of us 
older ones know it.” 


42 


The Making of Jane 

Miss Witting wobbled her head. “ Speak for your- 
self ; for me, if I’m uncomfortable, even, I don’t care 
what is happening to the rest of the world.” 

Mrs. Saunders laughed. “ That is the way in which 
you always speak of yourself, dear Miss Witting; 
fortunately your friends know better.” 

The old woman grunted ungraciously, then added: 
“ I don’t know when we will sail; I’ve not made up 
my mind. I’m going to Ireland first, and as I’m like 
you, going to bed and staying there all the time, a sea 
voyage is no joy to me. Besides, it terrifies me. In 
case of accident some fools might try to save a pretty 
girl, but an old woman like me, you know, they’d let 
go to the bottom at once. So I’m terrified from start 
to finish; take a deck cabin, and live with a life-pre- 
server on. Mark, here, told me I’d feel safe if I had 
him along, but I did not, and will not.” 

“ And yet I keep her informed of the state of the 
glass,” Mark put in. “ I tell her all about the ma- 
chinery, I explain all about the compartments, and 
how safe a modern vessel is, and if there is a fog or a 
storm I sit and hold her hand.” 

“ Oh, Miss Witting, how good he is ! ” cried Mrs. 
Saunders. 

The old woman grunted as before, then rose to go. 
“ I’m glad to have met you again,” she said; “I’ve 
often wondered what you had done with your life and 
with this child — she looked a scared, nervous little 
thing when I saw her last.” 

“Thank you for your interest, dear Miss Witting. 

43 


The Making of Jane 

I have tried to do my duty by her, and she has im- 
proved, I think. Trials, of course, but — ‘ In every life 
some rain must fall/ you know.” 

“ Else it would be dead dry,” and the old soul 
laughed as she cut Mrs. Saunders short. 

And Mark was saying quietly to Jane: “ Look for 
us at Queenstown. I must go home ; and please come 
to Hillside.” 


44 


V 


“ Young Love lies dreaming; 

But who shall tell the dream ? ” 

J ANE wondered a little as to Mark’s assurance that 
she would see him at Queenstown, but she did 
not speak of it. Miss Witting did not look like a 
very persuadable person, still he seemed to be quite 
sure of his plans. The things that had been insinuated 
about him by her cousins had not been pleasant, but 
she had learned to discount much. Not that she was 
particularly interested in Mark Witting, but as his po- 
sition seemed somewhat analogous to her own, she 
wondered if he as a man had more power over his 
earthly providence — if he could persuade his daily 
bread to change its route or hasten its movements. 
None of these things had she ever attempted, she had 
never cared enough. The only thing she had ever 
tried to do, besides obeying implicitly, had been to 
save money, and she had not tried that long. Mrs. 
Saunders had in some way discovered the little ar- 
rangement about “ candy-money,” and had put a firm 
foot down on it. An allowance she would permit, but 
uncounted, indiscriminate gifts of money, teaching the 
girl wicked extravagance, she would not countenance. 

Jane kept the childish hoard, however, and though 
she had to give a strict and itemized account of every 

45 


The Making of Jane 

cent of her allowance, she sometimes was able to add 
a little to the coins in the doll’s trunk. Mr. Saunders 
still gave her money on her birthdays, a day late usu- 
ally, so that when interrogated as to her gifts Jane 
need not mention it, for if mentioned it would have to 
be accounted for; if given and concealed, it would be 
a lesson in indirection; but to let it come in casually, a 
few days late, solved the problem and gave Mr. Saun- 
ders much satisfaction. 

She wondered about Mark Witting, and when she 
saw him and his aunt come on board at Queenstown 
she quietly discredited all that had been said about 
him. 

“ He’ll stow away his old lady,” and Mr. Saunders 
laughed a little, “ then perhaps he’ll come and play 
with us.” 

“ So you did come after all,” Jane said, when, 
later, Mr. Saunders having gone to the smoking- 
room, the young man put his chair down close to 
hers. 

“ Of course,” Mark answered. “ I insisted on Rus- 
sia, aunt immediately set out for Ireland; I declared 
for the Far East, she at once took passage on this 
steamer. One must manage people,” he went on, 
“ and when they are beyond dark closets and the use 
of old slippers one has to find other methods. She had 
agreed that I must come home, and yet this was the 
only way in which I could make her keep to her own 
agreement, and of course I could not leave her wan- 
dering about by herself. You don’t have to manage 
your old people? ” 


4 6 


The Making of Jane 

“ No,” and Jane shivered a little — suppose Mrs. 
Saunders had heard him! 

“ A petted darling; what a lucky person. Has Mrs. 
Saunders made any plans for the summer? Will you 
come to Hillside Springs?” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Do you wish to come there? ” 

“ I have not thought about it.” 

“ It is a charming place; quite simple, and yet very 
smart people, and everything in the way of amuse- 
ment. You play golf, of course.” 

“Of course; and tennis, and I dance, and ride, and 
swim.” 

“All the trimmings; and yet your cousin said that 
you had not been thrown with young people.” 

“Cousin Henry is young enough; for the rest, I 
have been taught.” 

“ Dancing-school, gymnasium, swimming-pool — a 
careful product.” 

“ Yes.” 

He laughed a little. “ And what do you think of 
life?” 

“ I have not thought of it.” 

“ Have accepted it just as it came to you? Have 
you never struck out for yourself, never rebelled? ” 

“ Why should I?” 

He drew his hand down over his mustache and close- 
clipped, pointed beard, then asked: “ May I see what 
you are reading?” 

Jane handed him the book, which he turned over 
slowly, reading here and there, then closed it over his 

47 


The Making of Jane 

finger. “ I must seem very ill-bred,” he said, “ asking 
so many personal questions; and please forgive me, 
but I have heard so much about you, and you are so 
different from any girl I’ve ever met. You seem never 
to have done anything, never to have tried to do any- 
thing.” 

“ I have studied very hard.” 

“ And of course your reading has been selected.” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ Then I may not offer any of my books.” 

“ I am interested in my own books.” 

Mark returned the volume to her. “ I am almost 
tempted to ask your age,” he said. 

“ Nineteen,” she answered, frankly. 

“ I was expecting to hear fifteen.” 

“ No one comes out so young as that.” 

“I remember; you are coming out this winter.” 

“ A little bit this summer, too.” 

“ Do you feel anxious about it? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You are indeed a careful product. Have you ever 
been out of Mrs. Saunders’s sight? ” 

“ I am out of it now.” 

“Very good,” and Mark laughed a little; then — 
“ Please tell me what in all the world you’d rather do? 
If set free at this moment what would you do? ” 

“ Continue this voyage to New York.” 

Again Mark laughed. “ Does Mrs. Saunders realize 
half how loyal you are? ” 

“ Loyal? It had not occurred to me. And now may 
I look at your book?” 


48 


The Making of Jane 

“ Of course, and put me through a catechism, too.” 

For answer Jane opened the book he gave her. 
Mark watched her as she read, smiling as she closed 
and returned it. “ You don’t like it? ” 

“ I do not think that I should like it.” 

“ How deep your training has gone ; but here comes 
Mr. Saunders.” 

“Well, Mr. Witting, is your aunt quite comfort- 
able, and will you take a walk with me and Janey? 
We take a tramp about this time every day. We walk 
for thirty minutes four times a day.” 

“ Capital ; something to do.” Off they started, pull- 
ing down their hats, buttoning up their coats, catching 
step and tramping briskly until the color came clear 
and fresh to the girl’s cheeks and her eyes had a 
brighter light in them. Mark Witting’s many ques- 
tions had worried her, and she was not sure that she 
would like him, but now he was drawing Mr. Saun- 
ders out in a way she had never heard before. She 
was amused, surprised, interested, and all the while 
Mark seemed to be caring for her. Moving chairs, 
putting out a protecting hand when the ship lurched, 
getting between her and the wind when they happened 
to pause. Mr. Saunders always walked with his hands 
in his pockets. If she stumbled, he cried, “Take 
care.” If she came to a chair, she had to walk round 
it, and their conversations had been rather circum- 
scribed. They had talked together so many, many 
times that they found themselves reduced to comments 
on their fellow-travellers. And even in this field Mark 
had been unusually amusing, and Jane found herself 

49 


The Making of Jane 

laughing as she had not often laughed. After the walk 
he went off to tuck his aunt in, he said, and make a 
report on the engine as a whole. Another time he 
would give it to her piece-meal, with remarks on the 
religious convictions of the chief engineer. 

“ A nice fellow,” Mr. Saunders commented ; “ he’ll 
lighten up the voyage.” And he did. At the end of 
twenty-four hours Mr. Saunders said : “ If you are 
going to be on deck, Witting, I’ll go for a game of 
cards.” Of course Mrs. Saunders would not have done 
such a thing; she would have found something for 
Jane to go and do, and Mr. Saunders had never be- 
haved in this way before, and Jane, musing over the 
situation, thought that perhaps the talk of her being 
a young lady had made him feel that she was capable 
of taking care of herself. Whatever it was, she was 
not responsible. Up and down, up and down they 
walked, and Jane found it extremely pleasant. For the 
first time she was experiencing the sensation of being 
of importance, of being somebody. She had always 
stood in the shadow cast by Mrs. Saunders. Many 
pleasant things had been said of her in her hearing, 
but only as a creation of Mrs. Saunders’s. One mo- 
ment a cross, the next a crown, she had been always 
a sort of conductor of flattery to her cousin ; now Mark 
was making everything seem quite different, was mak- 
ing her his first object. He tucked her carefully into 
her chair, watched that her jacket was buttoned, read 
aloud to her. He actually gave her orders in a quiet 
way when Mr. Saunders was absent, dropping back 
into his own place when Mr. Saunders returned. 

50 


The Making of Jane 

Twenty-four hours out from New York, sitting in 
Mrs. Saunders’s cabin, Mr. Saunders casually men- 
tioned Mark Witting. There was a pause, when Mr. 
Saunders took out his watch, and Jane waited. Then 
Mrs. Saunders said: “ You have not mentioned him 
before.” 

“ No? Well, I’ve found him very pleasant. He 
spends much energy on his aunt.” 

“ I did not see them get on.” 

“ Queenstown — they came aboard there.” 

“ You have not mentioned it, Jane.” 

“ Is it of such importance?” Mr. Saunders asked. 
“ I did not know that you thought so much of the 
Wittings.” 

“ The Wittings are nothing; it is that I am shut 
away from your confidence; down here alone while 
you are enjoying yourselves, and you drive me into 
greater loneliness by hiding things from me.” 

“ Awfully sorry, my dear, but there’s nothing to tell. 
The Wittings are aboard, and this fellow is twice the 
man his father was, though nothing extraordinary. 
Not very brilliant, but kindly and well-mannered. 
Janey has been most exemplary, has done her train- 
ing much credit, and gave me no trouble at all.” 

“ I’m not aware that I have ever permitted her to 
trouble you.” 

“ Of course not; you’ve had what trouble there 
was ” 

“ Exactly, what trouble there was.” 

Mr. Saunders looked at his watch again. 

“ Pray don’t stay if you’ve anything to do.” 

51 


The Making of Jane 

“ Nothing special, only we take a walk at this time 
every day; nothing that cannot wait.” 

“ Don’t let me interfere. Not that you lighten up 
things very much when you do come, mentioning in- 
teresting things only when uninteresting things have 
failed you. You two are a puzzle. All the world be- 
fore you to see and to enjoy, yet you add nothing to 
the common fund of pleasure — nothing! ” 

“ We must try to do better, Janey,” and Mr. Saun- 
ders rose; “but we are so accustomed to leaning on 
you, my dear, to waiting for you to observe and ex- 
plain, that we have forgotten how, literally forgotten 
how. We’ll keep a sharp lookout now, however, and 
report again after lunch.” 

“ I shall probably be asleep.” 

Mark Witting was waiting for them, and the tramp 
began. “ Only one more day,” Mark said. 

“ Only one more day,” Mr. Saunders repeated. “ I 
am really sorry; may we have another voyage to- 
gether some day.” After a little Mr. Saunders went 
away to his cards, and Mark put down the book he 
had been reading. 

“ Are you sorry that the voyage is over? ” he asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ You did not say so.” 

“ My opinion does not usually matter.” 

“ It does to me — a great deal. I waited to hear you 
say something.” 

“ I am sorry, very sorry that it is over.” 

“ Will you come to Hillside Springs?” 

“ I shall wish to come.” 


52 


The Making of Jane 

“You have no influence?” 

“ None. I shall not be consulted.” 

“ What would persuade your cousin to come? Sup- 
pose you begged her to go somewhere else? ” 

“ I’ve never asked her for anything in my life.” 

“ And won’t begin. How have you kept yourself 
so still; how have you so subdued yourself, or has 
your will been broken?” 

“ Cousin has never punished me in my life but once, 
and then she seated me in a chair.” 

Mark whistled softly, then said, slowly: “I’m glad 
that you have feeling enough left to regret the end of 
the journey. I shall miss you — miss you awfully. May 
I come to see you? ” 

“ If cousin asks you.” 

“ Practically, the voyage ends to-night,” Mark went 
on, “ for the whole ship’s company will be at break- 
fast. I shall have to vacate my seat next to you, which 
is Mrs. Saunders’s, and go with auntie to the other 
table. Will you grieve a little bit? ” 

“ A great deal.” 

“ Thank you. Will Mr. Saunders grant us a little 
grace this evening? The moon will be so beautiful; 
you cannot arrange it, of course, but I can.” A lit- 
tle farewell supper, he explained to Mr. Saunders. 
Couldn’t he and Miss Ormonde come on deck again 
after bidding Mrs. Saunders good-night? It would be 
only a little after nine o’clock, and as they all had 
separate cabins their going down later would not dis- 
turb Mrs. Saunders. Some champagne in the moon- 
light, just a little “ In Memoriam ” to the happy days 

53 


The Making of Jane 

that were done. And Mr. Saunders agreeing, the re- 
past was had. It was for Jane an evening with a mark 
set against it to differentiate it from all the evenings 
of her life. She found herself surrounded by a thou- 
sand little deferences, a wonderful thoughtfulness, and 
even in the moonlight she lowered her eyes beneath 
some of Mark’s glances. It was quite twelve o’clock 
before they went cautiously to their cabins, but it was 
well into the dawn before the girl fell asleep. The 
wine, or the moonlight, or something was sending the 
blood throbbing through her veins. A great elation 
was hers, her cheeks were burning, her eyes were shin- 
ing, and even after she lost consciousness she seemed 
to be once more lying back in her chair soothed by 
the long roll of the ship, watching the high mast cut- 
ting an arc against the sky, listening to Mark’s voice 
as he talked to Mr. Saunders, fearing Mark’s eyes, yet 
waiting for every look. 

At breakfast all was changed. Jane was once more 
in the background, Mrs. Saunders absorbing Mark and 
Mark seeming quite willing to be absorbed. 

“ How lonely she must have been during the voy- 
age,” he began. “ She was accustomed to that,” she 
answered, “ and having taken time by the forelock she 
had guarded against illness; she felt it to be her duty 
so as not to trouble others.” Mark bowed. “ What 
rare thoughtfulness,” he said, with deep conviction, 
and so on for the whole morning, until Miss Witting 
came on deck, then Mrs. Saunders made him put his 
aunt’s chair next to hers, himself on her other side, 
advising Jane and Mr. Saunders to go to walk. 

54 


The Making of Jane 

“ All the way over,” she said, “ I have heard of noth- 
ing but the necessity of their taking sufficient exercise.” 

Miss Witting grunted, and Mark said, in an imper- 
sonal way, that Miss Ormonde looked in better trim 
than when she came on board. 

It was a dreary walk, even though they stepped 
briskly; they had to keep up appearances, and when 
they passed Mrs. Saunders and Mark Witting, Jane 
would find herself talking to Mr. Saunders. When the 
thirty minutes were up Jane stopped at the other end 
of the deck. Everything was being put in order; she 
had seen it all before, but now she appeared to be 
deeply interested in the movement about her. It was 
a long, long morning, and she kept as far away from 
Mark and Mrs. Saunders as she was permitted to do, 
until, Mark being absent for a moment, Mrs. Saun- 
ders said: 

“ I should like you to be at least civil to my friends, ,, 
and Jane had to come and sit with them. 

Mark did escort her to the carriage when they 
landed, but Jane did not look up at him, even though 
saying all that politeness demanded. The drive from 
the docks she found interminable, and was guilty of 
fidgeting a little. 

“ Repose is the atmosphere of a lady,” Mrs. Saun- 
ders quoted, severely, “ and if even these few days from 
under my eye has so spoiled your manners, Jane, what 
will your future life be? You cannot expect to have 
me with you always.” 

Jane drew back into her corner of the carriage. She 
longed to answer, and could not understand this long- 

55 


The Making of Jane 

ing, which was a new one. The glimpses of life which 
Mark had given her, life as other people lived it, he 
said, as other girls enjoyed it, had thrown new light 
on her own life. Yet, think as she would, she could 
not see in what other girls’ lives, provided they were 
her equals socially, differed from her own. The girls 
she had met at the very exclusive dancing-school and 
gymnasium which she had attended seemed to be 
supervised just as she was. They did talk of lunches 
and parties among themselves, interrogating her as to 
why she was never allowed to accept an invitation, but 
she had felt no wish to go to these gatherings. She 
had not been especially attracted by any of the girls 
individually, and she could not see how they would 
give her pleasure collectively. But had she longed 
ever so much she would not have been allowed to dissi- 
pate in the very smallest degree. Jane must be abso- 
lutely fresh when she came out, Mrs. Saunders de- 
clared; must form no intimate friendships which might 
later on prove inconvenient; must not learn the mod- 
ern slang, the modern hoydenish ways, the girl-of-the- 
period walk or views of life. So she was kept apart, 
educated at home, spending the last two years of her 
girlhood abroad, where girls were kept in the kind of 
subjection which Mrs. Saunders favored. 

“A fair, fresh, innocent child,” Mrs. Saunders ex- 
plained, “ who has never heard one evil word, who has 
never read a questionable book, who has never had a 
coarse companion. A girl trained daily and hourly 
under my own hand and eye, who if she ever goes 
wrong will do it because of heredity.” Jane’s manner 
56 


The Making of Jane 

to Mark Witting, however, had given Mrs. Saunders 
a moment of consternation. If the girl did not make 
more effort to please than Jane had made when in 
his company she would be a dead failure! After all 
these years of training, of airing her theories, of money 
spent in every direction, it was a disastrous possibility 
to contemplate. Her teachers had declared the girl to 
be clever ; she could see for herself that she was grace- 
ful, was distinguished looking; what if she had no 
charm! What a fiasco! All-absorbing charm would 
be inconvenient, but she must have some charm, must 
at least be attractive. Must? — but was she? Mark 
Witting, whom she had discovered to be a very know- 
ing man of the world, who recognized a good thing at 
once, had taken small notice of her, and yet he had 
been on the same ship with the girl for a week. And 
Jane had never struck her as being shy. Disastrous! 
She must take a cottage; she must entertain a little 
this summer; must try to make the girl as supple so- 
cially as she was physically. 

Meanwhile, as they drove, she was harping on Jane’s 
want of interest in people. The greatest charm a per- 
son could have was an unselfish interest in the people 
about them, a spontaneous sympathy. Southern peo- 
ple prided themselves on being responsive; Jane was 
a Southerner, Jane must be responsive. 

“ You scarcely answered Mr. Witting this morning.” 

“ He scarcely spoke to me, cousin.” 

“ When he did, however, you should have seemed 
interested ; you should have answered in a light, spark- 
ling way; have used a little badinage.” 

57 


The Making of Jane 

“ Why waste all that ammunition on Witting? ” Mr. 
Saunders queried. 

“How coarsely you put it, Henry; Mr. Witting is 
a very agreeable man ; besides, good manners are never 
wasted. To be popular, to be successful, to be an un- 
selfish Christian, one must be gentle and gracious to 
all who approach — to the very dogs and cats. Noth- 
ing is so fatal socially as strong likes and dislikes. In- 
deed, Christians should not have them; but if you are 
so prejudiced as to indulge in them, for heaven’s sake 
don’t show them. It is most extraordinary that, liv- 
ing with me all these years, Jane should yet be so 
deficient in these very rudiments of what is right and 
proper.” 

“ Let us give her another chance,” and Mr. Saun- 
ders nodded at Jane. 


58 


VI 


“ For an evil blossom was born 

Blood-red and bitter of fruit, 

And the seed of it laughter and tears, 

And the leaves of it madness and scorn ; 

A bitter flower from the bud, — ” 

B EFORE many days it was revealed to Jane that 
their destination for the summer was Hillside 
Springs, and she felt her heart leap up as it had not 
leaped before in her memory. Her life had been a 
stagnant pool until that voyage, when it had seemed 
to flow over the edge and become a running stream, 
bubbling and sparkling in a way that was a revelation. 
Suddenly it had dropped into another deadly still pool. 
A week in the dismantled house, which had been closed 
for two years, had been a dreary experience, more 
dreary for the week of unwonted freedom and new 
sensations just gone. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Saunders 
being full of business, she was left without orders or 
suggestions. Horses, carriages, servants, silver, and 
all sorts of furnishings had to be sent forward. Mrs. 
Saunders always made herself comfortable, and as she 
could not be comfortable unless she had every pos- 
sible thing that other people had, or that a person in 
her position could be expected to have, it meant a 
great expenditure of thought and money. 

59 


The Making of Jane 

“ It is not exhilarating,” Jane said to herself, and to 
her astonishment found herself missing the formal 
routine of her life over which she had so often yawned. 
At least those dull functions had been something to 
do. Now they were impossible, for, socially, Mrs. 
Saunders was not in town. 

“ On the wing,” she explained to an acquaintance 
on the street. “ Camping until our summer cottage is 
ready. When you hear that I am without Simmons, 
gone forward to arrange things, you will understand 
to what straits I am reduced.” 

So Jane had much time in which to think. Her 
nursery was still her room, and she had changed noth- 
ing. The shadows of many successive governesses, 
of many maids lingered there, but now that these peo- 
ple had gone out of her life she did not mind their 
shadows. In a way they had been vanquished. She 
would sit in front of the doll-house just as when a 
child, empty-handed, with the doors wide open. She 
could think better so. 

She was thinking now that her excitement that last 
evening on the vessel had been silly. That they were 
going to this especial place would not mean anything. 
The pool of her life must bubble up a little, but what 
then? As a young lady it was bound to be different, 
but she need not expect anything that would at all 
remind her of the sea-voyage. 

She expected nothing, of course not, and yet when 
she reached their summer cottage she found that it 
was quite different from anything she had thought of. 
She had lived in villas, in apartments, in hotels, but 
60 


The Making of Jane 

never before in a cottage, and to her it had meant a 
small house in a wood, and a little wildness about it. 
Of course, if she had had any sense at all, she would not 
have expected anything but a high state of civilization. 
A fashionable drive, a fashionable promenade, a fash- 
ionable park where there were buildings for the baths 
and the springs, and their own large house was only 
a bit of New York moved up, with trimmings from 
Paris and London. The carriage met them at the 
station; Simmons met them at the front door, and 
dinner would be served in an hour. What a sameness 
money put into life, and Jane walked up to her room 
slowly. 

She had often wondered at Mrs. Saunders’s pleasure 
in securing half of a parlor-car; seats for herself, Jane, 
and Mr. Saunders in one end, with Simmons, Colby, 
and the second maid at the other end; in sending 
for them to wait on her, to open her bags when she 
wanted a trifle, to fetch and carry in a thousand use- 
less little ways, all the while shutting herself away 
from other travellers behind newspapers and books, 
behaving, indeed, as if the car was empty. Jane had 
wondered at it, then hated it. Now she wondered a 
little that a house had been taken — Mrs. Saunders so 
enjoyed life in a hotel where she could be exclusive 
in such an aggressive way. A house was to be really 
shut off. Of course in New York a house was a ne- 
cessity, but having a home and a foothold, a hotel life 
was what pleased her cousin. 

Standing at the window, dressed for dinner, she 
thought all this, then fell to wondering at the stillness. 

61 


The Making of Jane 

Deadly still, and the lamps on the road, that had at 
this point ceased to be a street, were very sparse. 

Mr. Saunders seemed to have been thinking along 
the same lines, for at dinner he said: “It’s a pretty 
big house, don’t you think, and very far off? ” 

“ I don’t like to live in a bee-hive,” Mrs. Saunders 
answered, “besides, there is still some training to be 
done on Jane.” 

“ Isn’t she done yet? ” and Mr. Saunders smiled at 
the girl. 

After dinner,” Mrs. Saunders went on, “ I wish, 
Henry, that you will go to the inn and see who is 
here, and order whatever paper is printed here.” 

“ May Janey come with me?” 

“ Of course not. The first evening? You astonish 
me. We are not settled yet. And have our arrival 
put in the paper. This place is called ‘ Woodside,’ 
with commodious stables where our horses can be 
made comfortable, and beautiful tennis-courts; also, 
let your New York clubs be known ” 

“ Just as if I were dead,” Mr. Saunders interrupted. 
“ It’ll be better to let a man come out and interview 
you.” 

There was a pause, then, as the servants were in 
the room, Mrs. Saunders turned to Jane and changed 
the subject. “ So glad we have open fireplaces,” she 
said; “ cool evenings come so often in the hills. And 
I must find out about the baths to-morrow. Doctor 
Merriam thought that they would be good for me. 
He gave me a note to the physician here, who, of 
course, must advise me. I shall see him to-morrow.” 

62 


The Making of Jane 

“ Janey nor I will need the baths, will we? ” 

“ I hope not, indeed ; for me, I must watch my- 
self, and whenever by any chance I reach a place that 
is suited to me I must make the best of it, if I have 
time from my daily duties. So, if I can arrange it, I 
shall take the baths. It will have to be before lunch, 
of course, so please, Henry, keep yourself disengaged 
for that time, for of course Jane must be looked after.” 

“ You want me to play with Janey in the morning, 
then?” 

“ If you will.” 

“Delighted, I’m sure.” 

“ You thank me as if I never provided for your 
pleasure. You will drive with me to the doctor’s to- 
morrow, Jane, at eleven o’clock. You will wear your 
blue linen.” 

“ Yes, cousin,” and once more for Jane life had 
come down to a natural level. 

It was a pretty village, and the homes of the real 
inhabitants did have the country look which Jane had 
expected, but about the park and the hotels there was 
the usual bazaar for Eastern stuffs, the usual “Art” 
shop, embroidery shop, florist, confectioner, and the 
like; Jane knew them all so well, they were every- 
where that she had ever been in the summer, and she 
was so tired of them. Mrs. Saunders stopped at the 
florist’s, leaving Jane in the carriage, then quite sud- 
denly, as if he had been waiting his chance, Mark 
Witting appeared. 

“ I heard that you were coming,” he said, “ and 
have been watching for you. I’m so glad — but you 

63 


The Making of Jane 

know that. You are not looking so well. You look 
worn and out of spirits; what has happened? Noth- 
ing? I take that with a grain of salt — forgive me. 
And what quick work Mrs. Saunders made in getting 
the cottage. Nicest one in the place, and will you be- 
lieve I selected this house? I happened to be in the 
fellow’s office when Mrs. Saunders’s letter came, and 
I made him take this house away from a man — fortu- 
nately the man had never seen it — and give it to you. 
I really did, I wanted her to be comfortable, so that 
she would spend the whole summer, and possibly take 
it for next year. I’m bound to stay here, you know, 
because Aunt Euphemia will not, any longer than is 
possible, be separated from her friend, old Mrs. Cres- 
wick. Quite romantic, was engaged to Mrs. Cres- 
wick’s brother some time back in the middle ages, so 
far back that he was killed in the Mexican War. 
Imagine such faithfulness, such romance, single and 
solitary all these decades for the love of one man! 
And the old ladies always shed tears when they meet. 
Funny, isn’t it? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I beg pardon, you are not of this workaday 
world that has no sentiment, no soul to speak of, or 
rather whose soul is an expedient, adaptable, almost 
material thing. 4 Flower of the flesh,’ some writer 
calls it.” 

“ Here is Mrs. Saunders.” 

Mark turned quickly. “ My dear Mrs. Saunders! ” 

“ Why, Mr. Witting, pray put on your hat. If Jane 
has allowed you to stand all this time in the sun with- 
out it you’ll surely have a stroke.” 

64 


The Making of Jane 

“ Only a moment, dear Mrs. Saunders, and the sun 
up in these hills does not seem hot at all. Do you 
like your cottage ? And is there anything in the world 
that I can do for you? ” 

“ Two things.” 

“ Delighted.” 

“ Direct the coachman to Doctor Making’s ” 

“ Are you ill, dear Mrs. Saunders? Been doing too 
much? Your eyes look tired.” 

“ Doing everything, but I hope that I am not ilL 
Illness would be very trying with a young woman to 
chaperone.” 

“ Trying indeed; but what is the other thing that I 
can do for you? ” 

“ Come and dine at seven this evening. I must 
have someone to talk to. As for Jane and my hus- 
band, well — is it not so, Jane? Mr. Saunders is mono- 
syllabic, and Jane is taciturn in three languages — you 
speak three, don’t you, dear ? ” and she laughed mu- 
sically. 

“Oh! Miss Ormonde, will you speak German with 
me? I am so rusty.” 

“ I’m afraid that her communication will be ja, ja, 
and nein, nein; but you will come this evening. Be 
sure to remember me to your aunt; and where does 
Mrs. Creswick live? Same old place? Then she is 
just beyond us on Elm Road. Thanks; good-by — 
be sure to come — seven o’clock.” 

“ You are looking better,” Mark said to Jane, drop- 
ping into a seat beside her for a moment after dinner; 
“ you actually have some color.” 

65 


The Making of Jane 

“The wine, probably; cousin likes me to drink a 
little now so as to become accustomed to it.” 

“And of course you don’t like it. Do you like or 
dislike anything absolutely?” 

“ I see no use in formulating likes and dislikes.” 

“ It would be of no avail? ” 

“ It would be great discomfort for nothing.” 

“ You must have a tremendous will.” 

“ I have strong habits.” 

“A habit of self-control, a habit of aloofness. My 
child, forgive me — I’m ten years your senior — you are 
in a dangerous condition. Some day there will come 
a grand finale, a grand explosion, when you’ll smash 
everything within reach.” 

“ I’m afraid not. There’s nothing to explode, and 
nothing to explode about. Here is cousin.” 

“ You do not smoke, Mr. Witting? I thought that 
by this time you would have enticed my husband into 
two-syllabled words at least.” 

“ It was you who wanted someone to talk to, Mrs. 
Saunders.” 

“ True, but I did not know that a man could with- 
stand a good cigar. This sofa is the least uncomfort- 
able seat in the room,” and she pointed to the place 
beside her. “ I like Doctor Malting so much,” she 
went on, “and this air is such a tonic that I verily 
believe I’ll take this cottage for another summer. At 
all events I shall send for some decently comfortable 
chairs, and some cushions, and things of that kind. 
Now tell me about the people who are here, and the 
amusements — the afternoon amusements, for I shall be 
66 


The Making of Jane 

under treatment of one kind or another every morn- 
ing. At last Mr. Saunders will have to do something, 
he will have to look after Jane.” Then the talk went 
off to the country club, the golf-links, the tennis-courts, 
and the affairs of friends who were in the place or ex- 
pected, while Jane, who had changed her seat to one 
nearer the lamp, embroidered silently. 

The color in her cheeks that Mark had alluded to 
had risen there when he so unexpectedly had come in 
from the dining-room and had taken the seat beside 
her. Now that he had changed his place, and was 
entertaining Mrs. Saunders, the soft bloom was fad- 
ing. He was talking to Mrs. Saunders, yes; and 
seemed to be absorbed, yes; was looking at her con- 
tinuously and bending over toward her, yes; but his 
voice was different, quite different. “ My child,” he 
had said — “ My child,” and the tone had been a caress. 
A ringing came into her ears, and the embroidery 
blurred under her eyes. A wreath of passion-flowers, 
conventional passion-flowers. She smiled a little, 
everything about her life had been conventional, even 
passion-flowers ! 

“ What are you thinking? ” 

She started violently. Mark was leaning over her. 
“ Mrs. Saunders has gone to speak to Mr. Saunders,” 
he explained. “ What were you thinking? ” 

The lovely color came back at once. “ That all my 
life had been conventional,” she said, “even to con- 
ventional passion-flowers,” and she spread out her 
work. 

“ Conventional passion-flowers,” Mark repeated, and 

67 


The Making of Jane 

looked at her searchingly. “ Remember that grand 
finale,” he said, “that grand explosion I warned you 
of. Be careful, it would be better to kick over the 
traces a little bit, to do something unconventional, just 
to save yourself. Let me be your mentor, I who am 
so old. You will be safe with me, may do giddy things 
with me, and it will be all right, because I will under- 
stand,” and he drew her work from her hands. “ Do 
you remember on the ship when I buttoned your coat 
for you so unexpectedly, how shocked you were? 
That hard button close under your chin? That was 
unconventional, but I had to do it, you were so tempt- 
ingly proper. All the while on the voyage I was study- 
ing you, but I never dreamed that you would have 
any thoughts about conventional passion-flowers. A 
new view of you who have so many sides. Do you 
know that you are a dangerous young person, dan- 
gerous because you are so cold, so calm, so piquantly 
reserved. You tempt a man to all sorts of extrava- 
gances in order to rouse you. I have to deprive you 
of your work in order to make you listen to me.” 

Jane pushed her chair back a little. 

“ You need not be afraid of me; I am an old man 
of the world. You are not twenty, and I am thirty. 
I am nearer to Mrs. Saunders than to you. She may 
be forty, she does not look it, and is very handsome. 
No, don’t be afraid of me; I’ll be your mentor, your 
brother, so to speak, and I tell you these things more 
to warn you than to make you vain.” He had straight- 
ened up now, and was looking at the embroidery 
critically when Mrs. Saunders reappeared. 

68 


The Making of Jane 

“ Henry does not know,” she said, “ but I shall write 
and find out. What is the matter with Jane’s work? ” 

“ Nothing; I am looking at the design, there is a 
parable in it,” and, returning the work to Jane, he 
resumed his seat next to Mrs. Saunders. 

“ A parable? Jane, dear, go fetch that piece you 
have just finished. A parable? ” she repeated, looking 
up at him. 

“ Conventional passion-flowers,” and he bent over 
her; “you are so — dear Mrs. Saunders, you are so — 
but — here comes your young chaperone,” and he rose 
to look at the new piece of embroidery which Jane had 
obediently brought. 

The next morning Jane was sitting on a bench back 
from the front and away from the house, that was un- 
der some trees in the yard. At one end of the bench 
there was a pile of bright cushions which Jane had not 
utilized, on top of which lay a book at which Jane had 
not looked. On the other end of the bench reposed 
a tennis-racquet and balls; at her feet, some golf clubs. 
Her costume, from her hat to her tennis-shoes, was a 
harmony that took its key from her gray eyes. Mrs. 
Saunders had gone for her treatment, three hours; Mr. 
Saunders was reading the papers on the front piazza, 
and Simmons, the butler, who surreptitiously had, 
from Jane’s first entrance into the house, played into 
her hands, had this morning first suggested tennis to 
her, bringing the tools, then came across the lawn with 
the golf clubs, and again Jane had thanked him. 

“ The madam bein’ gone, Miss Jane,” he had sug- 
gested, “ it’s sure Mr. Saunders ’ll be glad to take 
you.” 


69 


The Making of Jane 

“Yes, Simmons.” 

Later he came with the cushions, then the book, 
but found Jane no further advanced toward a morn- 
ing’s pleasure. “Is it sick you are, Miss Jane?” he 
had asked. 

“No, Simmons; I don’t want to move, that’s all,” 
and so she sat until Mark vaulted the fence and came 
lightly across the grass. 

“ What luck,” he said, “ sitting alone and still, and 
yet with all the sporting gear at hand. Comforts, too, 
that you have not heeded. Where is your guardian? ” 

“ Reading the papers.” 

“Nice dragon that; I’m better than he. May I 
arrange these cushions? I really came to take him 
down to the club, and will carry out my intentions 
when he discovers us; meanwhile we will not disturb 
him. What book have you?” 

“ I do not know; Simmons brought it out.” 

Mark laughed a little looking at it. “ Scarcely 
yours,” he said. “ But do you never feel inclined to 
look at the books Mrs. Saunders leaves about? Are 
you afraid of her? ” 

There was a moment’s pause, then in her turn Jane 
asked : “ Why do you question me about a person to 
whom I owe so much?” 

“ I beg your pardon ; indeed, indeed that was not 
my stand-point. Forgive me, but you have so deeply 
interested me; you are so different from all the girls 
I have known that you puzzle me; the whole situa- 
tion puzzles me. Your face is so full of character, 
your eyes of wistful questions, and yet you never assert 
70 


The Making of Jane 

yourself — you never make an inquiry. Of course this 
is remarkable, and I am puzzled. What has stilled 
you; what has made you so subdue yourself? I am 
not wishing to know your family affairs, nor wishing 
you to criticise Mrs. Saunders, believe me. Most girls 
would make a point of reading any book that was ad- 
vised against or forbidden; you do not seem to see 
them. Most girls kept as closely at home as you, as 
carefully guarded, would treat men very differently; 
you do not seem to see the men any more than you 
see the books. You say it is all habit; how were these 
habits formed?” 

Jane waited a moment, then answered, slowly: “ My 
father and mother gave me to Mrs. Saunders when I 
was a little child. She has done everything for me. 
I have not thought about it much, but when a person 
has done all for you it is only natural that in return 
you should regard their wishes.” 

“ Grateful and loyal,” Mark said, almost as if to 
himself, and turned over slowly the pages of the book 
he held. Presently he rose. “ I must really speak to 
Mr. Saunders about the club,” he said, and went away. 

And the hour of noon found her still sitting on the 
bench with all the implements, still untouched, about 
her. Did gratitude and loyalty drive people away from 
one? was the question she had been pondering. 

That afternoon she was taken to call on an old lady, 
where they met Miss Witting. “ Dear Mrs. Creswick,” 
Mrs. Saunders said, “ how glad I am to see you once 
more. How well you are looking. This is my cousin, 
rather, my husband’s cousin, who lives with us. I 
71 


The Making of Jane 

wanted her to know you, dear Mrs. Creswick. I’ve 
brought her up, I’ve done my best for her; and now 
as she emerges into the world I want her to meet first 
all that is best.” 

“She’s very deaf,” Miss Witting said, dryly; “she 
has not heard you, but she understands that you are 
introducing the girl.” 

The color rose in Mrs. Saunders’s face. “ Has she 
a trumpet, or anything? ” 

“ Oh, yes; and you can say it all over again if you 
like, but she is just as well satisfied without it. She’s 
a simple soul, God bless her.” 

Mrs. Creswick, meanwhile, had handed the trumpet 
to Jane. “ I did not hear your name, my child.” 

“Jane Ormonde; I’m Mrs. Saunders’s adopted 
daughter, I am Mr. Saunders’s cousin.” 

“ So? I’ve heard about you then from Mrs. Ken- 
net. So glad to meet you, my dear.” Then the 
trumpet was handed to Mrs. Saunders, and Jane, with 
her color rising, heard herself spoken of as never be- 
fore in her life. 

“ Modest? ” Miss Witting suggested. “ Never heard 
yourself praised before? ” then she grunted a little and 
chuckled to herself. 

“ I think this is such a pretty country,” Jane vent- 
ured. 

“ Very pretty. Have you seen my nephew to-day? ” 
And Miss Witting had now lowered her voice. 

“ Yes, for a moment; he came to take Cousin Henry 
to the club.” 

“ So — doing the polite. Do you like him? ” 

72 


The Making of Jane 

“ Of course, Miss Witting.” 

“ Which means that if you did not you wouldn’t 
tell me.” 

“ But I do, Miss Witting; we all like him.” 

“ You cannot really need asseverations, Miss Wit- 
ting,” and Mrs. Saunders turned her lips away from 
the ear-trumpet, then back again to explain the situa- 
tion to Mrs. Creswick, and to add how much they 
liked Mr. Witting, and how happy Miss Witting ought 
to be to have such a dear nephew with her all the time. 

Mrs. Creswick nodded. “ Yes, and I am happy, too. 
My dear Laurence — you know Laurence? — comes to 
me every summer. With all the world tempting him, 
he comes to his old grandmother.” 

Mrs. Saunders’s eyes were suffused. “ Listen, Jane,” 
she said; “how beautiful!” 

Once more Miss Witting grunted. “ My boy,” she 
began, then she took the trumpet from Mrs. Saunders 
— “ My boy,” she repeated, “ is quite different from 
yours, he sticks to me because he has nothing and 
nobody.” 

Mrs. Creswick patted her on the hand. “ You do 
not mean that, Euphemia, you are such a tease. Mark 
is a dear fellow.” Then the trumpet was handed to 
Mrs. Saunders, and once more Jane tried to talk to 
Miss Witting, but it was up-hill work, and she was 
not sorry when Mrs. Saunders rose. 

“ I don’t visit at all,” Mrs. Creswick said at the last; 
“ but Laurence will call at once — at once, my dear,” 
and she nodded to Jane, and once more Miss Witting 
grunted. 


73 


The Making of Jane 

“ Old cat! ” Mrs. Saunders said as they got into the 
carriage, then no further word was spoken until, down 
in the village, they met Mark Witting. The carriage 
was stopped, and he came to them. 

“ Finish the drive with us,” Mrs. Saunders said, and 
he got in. “ I’ve been calling on Mrs. Creswick,” she 
went on, “ and your aunt was there.” 

“ Is always there.” 

“ Do you love her?” 

“ Not a bit; do you? ” 

“ Has anyone ever loved her? ” 

“Yes, Mrs. Creswick’s brother loved her before the 
Mexican War.” 

“ Good heavens ! fancy the Mexican War as the date 
for one’s last love-affair.” 

“ Rather mossy, but think of the romance, the faith- 
fulness! Miss Ormonde would admire that.” 

“ I do myself,” Mrs. Saunders put in quickly, with 
a toss of her head; “ it is beautiful.” 

“ In the abstract, but I could not live up to it. Have 
you met Creswick? ” 

“ Long ago, when he was at college ; we’ve been 
abroad so much — is he nice? ” 

“A model.” 

“ I am very anxious to meet him. I suppose he will 
call.” 

“ He will, I heard him tell Mr. Saunders so this 
morning at the club.” 

“And Henry did not tell me.” 

“Is it of such importance?” 

“ Not at all, only Henry and Jane have a way of 
never telling me anything.” 

74 


The Making of Jane 

Mark smiled at the girl. “ You may be sure then 
that she tells no one else anything. How safe; sup- 
pose she babbled? ” 

“ It would have been corrected long ago.” 

Jane was looking out across the hills and fields, it 
was a way she had learned when Mrs. Saunders made 
her the topic of conversation. Indoors she would stir 
her tea or examine her glove-buttons. Now the color 
rose slowly in her cheeks, and Mark changed the sub- 
ject, asking what they would do the next afternoon; 
if no engagement, would they take tea with him out at 
the golf-links. Very comfortable club-house, and they 
could play a little. 

“ You’ll teach me?” Mrs. Saunders asked. 

“ With pleasure.” Then the invitation was accepted. 

Reaching home they found Laurence Creswick on 
the piazza with Mr. Saunders. Tea was brought out, 
Jane was put to make it, and Creswick took his seat 
beside her. 

“ We’ve arranged a walk for to-morrow morning,” 
he said; “ the weather is so cool, and the hills are so 
lovely. Mr. Saunders has consented to go; will not 
you go also? ” 

Jane looked at Mrs. Saunders. “ A walk? ” Mrs. 
Saunders asked; “why of course, yes. At what time, 
Mr. Creswick?” 

“ Quite early, ten o’clock. Mr. Saunders is com- 
ing.” 

“And Jane; but I shall be unable to join you. I 
undergo treatment every morning. Will you go, Mr. 
Witting? ” 


75 


The Making of Jane 

Mark shook his head. “ I’m not a walker. But 
when you have finished at the baths, Mrs. Saunders, 
won’t you drive out and meet them?” 

“ And give you a lift? Ah, Mr. Witting, lazy, lazy.” 

His chair was near to hers, and he said, bending 
over his tea as he stirred it, “ Do you think it all 
laziness? ” 

“ I’ll stop for you at ten o’clock then,” Creswick 
finished; “ and if we are belated we can get lunch at 
a farmhouse. You will like that, Miss Ormonde? ” 

“ Very much.” Then the young men went away. 


76 


VII 


“ Go practise if you please 
With men and women : leave a child alone 
For Christ’s particular love’s sake ! — So I say.” 

I T rained during the night, clearing toward morning 
with a brisk wind that made it seem more like 
autumn than early summer. “ In white ! ” Mrs. Saun- 
ders remonstrated at breakfast, “ and so cool.” 

“ It is duck and short ; shall I change it ? ” 

“ No ; it’s hard on the laundress, though ; I was 
thinking of her. I never forget my servants. You 
must wear your white jacket and your black hat with 
field flowers; thick boots, of course, and those white 
wash-leather gloves.” 

“ Can’t she go barehanded in the country ? ” 

“ No, Henry. I don’t approve of this modern way 
of girls going bareheaded and barehanded in the sum- 
mer ; by winter they look like washer-women. I have 

been most careful of Jane’s complexion ” 

“ You’ve been most careful of all of Jane,” Mr. 
Saunders interpolated. 

“ Of course; and cannot let her spoil herself just as 
she is coming out. Nor do I believe that in their 
hearts men like hoydens. The womanly woman is 
man’s ideal still.” 

Mr. Saunders nodded at the girl. “ So you’ll wear 
those gloves, and perhaps carry an umbrella.” 

77 


The Making of Jane 

“ No, her hat has an unwired brim which droops 
a little. And remember, Jane, that Mr. Creswick it is 
who asks you for this walk; he is your host, and you 
must talk to him.” 

And later Creswick thought that he had never seen 
so flower-like a face as the one that looked at him from 
under the drooping hat-brim. Other young women 
of the party were, as Mrs. Saunders had said, bare- 
headed and brown, nice healthy girls, but the slim 
young thing who stuck so close to her guardian, whose 
color came and went so rapidly as one after another 
the walking party was introduced, who said so frankly 
when Mr. Saunders walked off with one of the bare- 
headed girls, “ I am so glad I met you yesterday,” 
charmed Creswick, and he answered quickly, “ Of 
course, we are old friends. And then you know my 
grandmother, too, and loved her at once.” 

“ Yes, and she called me ‘ my child ’ so gently. Miss 
Witting was there, too.” 

“ My grandmother and she are very devoted 
friends.” 

“ Yes ; Mr. Witting told my cousin of the love-story. 
I thought it a pity to tell on her.” 

“ You are quite right ; as the old lady has been faith- 
ful and silent, her friends should be silent and faith- 
ful.” 

“ Do you like people who are grateful and loyal ? ” 

“ Without doubt.” 

“ Do men as a rule like them ? ” 

“ I think so.” 

“ A man said that I was loyal and grateful, then he 
ran away.” 


78 


The Making of Jane 

“ He, probably, had not those virtues/’ 

“ Oh, I’m sure that he has ! ” then changing the sub- 
ject quickly, she asked the name of the point to which 
they were walking. 

“ I don’t know that it has a name, those hills yon- 
der ; see ? ” 

“ Those blue hills ? Have you ever read the poem 
of the people who longed to go to some hills that they 
could see from their homes? Where they lived the 
hills were green, these far-off hills were blue, and 
seemed so much more beautiful.” 

“ And then?” 

“ They sacrificed everything and journeyed on foot 
to the blue hills, a long, long journey, and when they 
got there they did not know it, because, you see, the 
blue hills were also green.” 

“ Poor souls ; we will call these hills the ‘ Blue Hills ’ 
then ; you’ve named them.” 

“ I’ve thought about that a good deal,” Jane went 
on, “ and wondered if all blue hills turn green when 
once we reach them.” 

“ What has been your experience ? ” 

“ I’ve had no experience.” 

“ You’ve never looked forward? ” 

“ Everything has always been arranged for me.” 

“ Parents and guardians always do that, but that 
does not prevent dreams.” 

“ If I dreamed, I would want the things I dreamed 
about, and if I could not get them, I’d be unhappy.” 

“ You might get them, if you would tell Mrs. Saun- 
ders.” 


79 


The Making of Jane 

“ She always has everything planned just as it^nust 
be ; she says it saves trouble.” 

“ And if all trouble has been saved you, what have 
you had in life ? ” 

“ Maids and governesses, and all the things such as 
teachers and clothes that everyone has.” 

“ Only the few have these things.” 

“ Cousin does not like me to hear about poor people,” 
Jane said quickly. “ She says there are so many fads 
about them ; that in America everyone has a chance to 
rise, and if they do not it is their own fault. She says 
that young girls are so apt to become romantic and ab- 
surd over poor people, and bring diseases into nice 
neighborhoods.” 

“ I feel very differently about all that.” 

Jane looked up quickly. “ Perhaps I have given 
you a wrong impression,” she said ; “ perhaps I have 
been talking too much. I do not often talk so much ; 
sometimes I cannot talk at all. Cousin says that I am 
taciturn in three languages. She has had me taught 
two languages besides English. I hate them.” 

“ Why?” 

“ They worried me so ; and I never liked any of my 
teachers. Now I shall not have any more ; I shall go 
into society.” 

“ Do you wish to? ” 

The girl sighed. “ I don’t know ; everything will 
be arranged just as it has always been, and from what 
I hear, society seems rather difficult ; it may be worse 
than the teachers. Do you know small talk ? ” 

Creswick laughed. “ I suppose I do, but I’m not 
very clever at it.” 


80 


The Making of Jane 

“ I am told that it is an art that has to be carefully 
learned. The weather and a little touch of what you 
hear is always safe ; but never say disagreeable things 
of people, because it will be surely repeated ; and never 
try to be smart or sharp, for that makes enemies, 
and Christians should never have enemies, and should 
always be popular. Is this what you think about it ? ” 

Creswick drew his hand down over his face and lips 
where a smile was lurking. “ I’ve never gone into it 
so carefully, Miss Ormonde. The weather, of course, 
and a little touch of what you hear, that’s gossip, and 
everybody is devoted to gossip ; that’s as far as I have 
gone.” 

“ So you just talk about the weather and gossip?” 

“ I’m afraid so.” 

“And does it answer?” 

“ I am not considered a brilliant conversationalist.” 

Jane looked up quickly. “ How do I talk to you so 
easily then ? I shall tell you the truth about it. 
Cousin said that you were my host on this walk, and 
therefore I must talk to you ; and I wondered and won- 
dered what I should say to you ; and instead of being 
embarrassed, I have not stopped a moment. I don’t 
understand it ; but it can’t be my fault, for I’ve never 
done it before. I hope that society will be as easy as 
this.” 

“ I shall be in society, you know, and you can always 
talk to me.” 

“ And all these girls and men ? ” with a gesture 
toward the party. 

“ Not all ; some of them do not live in New York.” 

81 


The Making of Jane 

“ And when I meet them I can talk to them of this 
summer, this walk, of you ? That will be easy ; here- 
tofore I have only listened.” 

“ Then you should have known all about small talk.” 

The girl shook her head. “ Cousin did not let me 
stay to talk to the men, and the old ladies talked about 
people I did not know.” They walked in silence a 
little way, then Jane asked : “ Have you known Mr. 
Witting long?” 

“ Off and on for some time. Do you know him 
well?” 

“ He came over on the steamer with us.” 

“ And was driving with you yesterday.” 

“ Cousin picked him up on the street. I am sorry 
for old Miss Witting and her lover. Do you think 
that she cries about him in the night ? ” 

“ Miss Witting? I am afraid not.” 

“ Her blue hills were green.” 

“ Yes, and your blue hills as to her tender heart are 
also green.” 

“ Somehow I did not think that she had a tender 
heart exactly, for she is neither kind nor gentle; she 
chuckles and grunts when people are talking, as if she 
did not believe one word they were saying.” 

“ She has lived in the world so long.” 

“ And the world does not tell the truth ? ” 

“ Truth emerges finally.” 

“ At the judgment-day.” 

“ I believe in a multitude of judgment-days. I have 
experienced many. Every summer when I meet my 
grandmother it is a sort of judgment-day, because she 
82 


The Making of Jane 

believes in me so entirely. A really good, true soul is 
always a judgment-day to us frailer ones.” 

It was a pleasant walk, and up on the hills they 
stopped at a farm-house and bought some bread and 
milk, and, turning home again, Creswick still walked 
with Jane, and they were so walking and interestedly 
talking when they met Mrs. Saunders driving and 
Mark Witting with her. 

“ How jolly you look,” she called ; “ what a nice 
color, Jane, and of course you do not want to drive 
back.” 

“ Of course not,” Creswick answered ; “ do you, 
Miss Ormonde ? ” 

“ No, no,” Mrs. Saunders interposed. “ Her color 
means some little heat, and to drive under such cir- 
cumstances would mean a cold. No, run on ; we will 
drive a little farther and catch you before you reach 
home.” But they did not meet again, for the walking 
party cut across fields, jumping fences and pushing 
through hedges, being tired of the road, they said. 

That afternoon they went out to tea at the golf-links 
with Mark Witting. Creswick was there and Miss 
Witting. “ As stupid an amusement as ever Fve 
seen,” the old lady declared ; “ and of course, Mrs. 
Saunders, you don’t play; let the young people tire 
themselves out with it ; you stay here with me.” 

“ But I have an engagement with Mrs. Saunders 
to teach her.” And Mark held out his hand to lead 
Mrs. Saunders down the steps. 

“ Then you’ll have to break it,” his aunt retorted. 
“ I’m not going to sit here by myself, and Mrs. Saun - 
83 


The Making of Jane 

ders is the only member of the party who can talk as I 
like to talk; so come here, Mrs. Saunders, and we’ll 
have a nice time. I’ve got lots of social bones I want 
to pick ; come. Go, Mr. Saunders, go, Laurence, go, 
Mark ; Miss Ormonde, please amuse them.” And 
they left Mrs. Saunders smiling and waving to them. 

“ Did you have a pleasant walk ? ” Mark asked Jane 
during one of the pauses. 

“ Very.” 

“ Have you taken my advice and done anything un- 
conventional ? ” 

“ I climbed some fences, and crept through some 
hedges.” 

“ And Creswick helped you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ It seems an age since I last saw you.” 

“ You had a nice drive with cousin.” 

“ Of course, when you were walking with Cres- 
wick.” 

After awhile they were together again. “ You 
snub me horribly,” Mark declared. 

Jane looked up. “ Everyone prefers to talk to 
cousin,” she answered. 

Mark laughed. “ Mrs. Saunders is charming,” he 
said, “ but you might pay me the compliment of look- 
ing interested when I talk to her in your presence.” 

“ You lower your voice.” 

“ You imagine that.” 

“ I had not thought so.” 

“ And you seem not to wish to talk when on rare 
occasions we are together.” 

84 


The Making of Jane 

“ It was you who left me on the bench.” 

“ After a most awful snubbing ; after I had been 
made to feel myself a Paul Pry; it was trying, espe- 
cially when nothing was farther from my thoughts.” 

“ I only told you the truth as to why I should please 
Mrs. Saunders.” 

“ And the truth gave me an uncomfortable blow ; 
that is a way truth has ; and I am afraid that you al- 
ways tell the truth. Have you discovered what con- 
ventional truth is,” he went on ; “ the little civil fiblets 
that make the social world go round? I believe in 
that kind of truth, because it and the tellers of it amuse 
me so. I like to upset it, too, by telling the real truth, 
and then, ten to one, you are supposed to be joking. 
But I am becoming afraid of you ; you and Creswick, 
I suppose, tell the real truth all the time, and moralize 
like two Sunday-school books. I’d like to be invisible 
and listen ; two models.” 

“ It’s my turn,” was all Jane’s answer, and she drove 
across the field. 

At tea Mrs. Saunders talked to Laurence Creswick, 
and Mark immediately took his seat on the steps where 
he had placed some cushions for Jane. “ Why will 
you not contradict me a little? ” he asked. “ I tried so 
hard to be provoking and irritating this afternoon, and 
you did not seem to see it.” 

“ I do not know very well how to dispute,” Jane 
answered. “ I don’t know about badinage and rep- 
artee ; I have not learned it.” 

“ You have lived a silent life ; you’ve listened, and 
yet you read a parable in conventional passion-flowers.” 

85 


The Making of Jane 

“ That was an accident.” 

“ An inspiration. I tried it on Mrs. Saunders and 
she looked intense, as if she were looking through a 
mill-stone. She has very handsome eyes. But what 
will you do to-morrow morning? Sit on that bench? 
And to-morrow afternoon ? ” 

“ Cousin has not told me.” 

“ Heavens ! I warned you the other day about an 
explosion, but sometimes I’d like to take hold of you 
and give you a good shaking; forgive me, but your 
passivity is the most tantalizing thing I’ve met with in 
all my life. If your cousin should tell you to cut off 
your pretty nose, would you do it ? ” 

Jane laughed. “ She does not like ugly people,” she 
answered. 

“ And that is all that saves your nose ? ” 

“ What are you talking about, Mr. Witting? ” And 
Mrs. Saunders leaned forward. 

“ Pure nonsense, Mrs. Saunders ; I’m only trying to 
tease Miss Ormonde a little. She is too good, you 
know; much too good.” And Mark shook his head. 
“ She has bowled me over and battered me so severely 
with lumps of truth, that I am morally black and blue. 
She drives me into uttering sentiments which I do not 
hold at all, then changes the subject in a gentle, firm, 
but disapproving, manner. You ought to feel so safe, 
Mrs. Saunders ; your training has gone so very deep.” 

“ It has been so unceasing.” 

“ I believe you.” 

That night as Jane’s hair was being brushed, Mrs. 
Saunders entered the room and dismissed the maid. 

86 


The Making of Jane 

“ You are not pleasing me,” she said when the door 
was closed. 

Jane looked up. 

“ You are making both yourself and me ridiculous,” 
she went on. “ First, you must not speak of yourself 
as my adopted daughter; I object to it. Again, you 
must change your manner, must cease to be so literal, 
must take people as you find them and not hold up ab- 
surd standards. I would even prefer a little slang, a 
little scandal ; anything would be better than this 
goody-goodiness. Of course you must be good, but 
that need not make you hopelessly prim and old- 
maidish. I must tell you quite plainly that I intend 
you to be a social success ; that I have trained you and 
educated you to that end, and to be a social success you 
must be pliable; you must, when you go into a com- 
pany, adapt yourself to it, or to the more important half 
of it at least. The early Christians were commanded 
to be all things to all men; this meant simply to be 
pliable. You have met two young men; each of them 
has mentioned to me your wonderful adhesion to my 
training. This makes me ridiculous, and I will not 
have it. I wish you to be trained, not to talk* about it. 
The highest art is to be artless ; the best training is to 
seem absolutely spontaneous. Mark Witting was ac- 
tually impertinent about it this afternoon. Now, re- 
member what I say. To-morrow morning you will 
not go out ; you have been out twice to-day, and I do 
not wish you to be always on view. And another rea- 
son why I wish you to stay at home, is that the dogs 
arrive to-morrow, and your Cousin Henry will have 

87 


The Making of Jane 

to look after them a little, and of course you cannot 
go with him. I wish you to take the dachshund which 
will come — he is a gift to your cousin — as your especial 
dog, and attach him to you. He is named after a dog 
in one of Matthew Arnold’s poems — Geist — it is con- 
sidered a very touching poem. I shall find it for you 
to read, then you will know why you named your dog 
Geist. I will send to the library in the morning for 
the book, and you can memorize it while I am at the 
baths. You will put on your pink dimity in the morn- 
ing. In the afternoon we take tea at Mrs. Creswick’s ; 
at dinner we will have Laurence Creswick, Mrs. Ken- 
net, and old Mr. DeLong.” Then she kissed the girl 
on the forehead and went away. 

Mrs. Saunders had gone for her treatment; Mr. 
Saunders had gone to receive the dogs — a pug, a toy 
spaniel, pets of long standing, and the new addition 
to the household in the shape of a dachshund, and once 
more Jane sat on the bench under the trees. Simmons 
had not tried to tempt her this morning, for at break- 
fast he had heard the plans for the day discussed ; but 
a little while after breakfast he had approached Jane 
bringing a book. “ Joseph has brought this from the 
library, Miss Jane, and Mrs. Saunders said that you 
were to have it at once.” 

Jane took the book from the tray, and now, under the 
trees, she held it in her hands listlessly. Lessons were 
not yet over, it seemed. The dog was to be named 
Geist, and in this book there was a poem about Geist ; 
she hoped it would not be long. On the page of con- 
tents she found “ Geist’s Grave,” that must be it. Alas, 
88 


The Making of Jane 

twenty verses ! She sighed. Mark Witting said that 
other girls were so different. They were ; on the walk 
the other day she had seen that they were very differ- 
ent. Which of them would be learning a long poem 
this lovely morning? They were probably out on the 
breezy golf-links — bareheaded. She looked up at the 
drooping brim of her hat. What use to think about 
it ; perhaps after the first season was past things would 
be different for her, too; and she turned to the poem. 

She did not know how long she had been studying 
when she was startled by a thud, and looked up to see 
that Mark Witting had once more jumped the fence, 
and was approaching her. 

“ I begin to believe in my luck,” he said. “ I begin 
to believe in doing my duty. Piously each morning 
I go to see my aunt, and as I return I find you sitting 
on this delightful bench. Creswick, meanwhile, does 
too much duty; he is winding wool for his old lady. 
What is this? Arnold’s poems — whew! You care 
for him ? ” 

“ I am just reading him.” 

“ Not enough go for me. Will you mind commun- 
ing with me instead of Mr. Arnold ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Thanks ; what shall we talk about ? ” 

“ What is it to be pliable?” 

“ Mentally, morally, spiritually, or physically ? ” 

“ Socially.” 

Mark laughed, throwing back his head a little. 
“ Good ! That combines them all,” he said. “ That 
means to know everyone’s income and position; that 

89 


The Making of Jane 

means to know when to be blind, and deaf, and dumb, 
for we need always to be one of these things, and some- 
times we need to be all. It means long training, infi- 
nite tact, careful amiability, cultivated patience, end- 
less endurance. It means to serve God and Mammon. 
Do you wish to be socially pliable ? ” 

“ Is it not necessary ? ” 

“ If one could be it without being found out,” Mark 
answered, “ it would be grand.” 

“ I thought it was a great accomplishment.” 

“ It is, if one has just the right quantity. Just the 
right quantity, and people say that you have tact ; a lit- 
tle more, and people call you politic ; to be always sweet, 
always smiling, always flattering, and you are immedi- 
ately discounted as a hypocrite.” 

“ I suppose that it is tact that I need.” 

“ Who says that you need anything ? ” 

“ It is not necessary that one should say it to me.” 

Mark laughed. “ It is plain to see,” he said, “ that 
* Cousin ’ has been lecturing you.” And he put his 
elbow on the back of the bench and turned more toward 
her. “ I am surprised,” he went on, “ that a woman as 
clever as Mrs. Saunders is, should try to change you, 
should not see how charming your simplicity is, your 
quiet revelation of your approval or disapproval. Be- 
cause I told her that you were so well trained, I sup- 
pose ; I am surprised.” 

“ I am always saying the wrong thing.” 

“ Each word is perfect.” 

“ I am prim and old-maidish.” 

“ I see; well, I like you just as you are, please; I 
90 


The Making of Jane 

like to be snubbed by you ; I am longing for that grand 
explosion to come, but I will give you a lesson in pli- 
ability if you like.” 

“ Please.” 

“ You must follow my lead in conversation absolute- 
ly, remember ; when I pay you a compliment you must 
blush and look coy ; when I criticise your dearest 
friends you must cap me ; when I praise, you must 
cap me there, too ; you must seem deeply interested and 
answer look for look intensely.” 

“ I am always interested when you talk.” 

“ You did that admirably ; you are an apt scholar.” 

“ But that is true — you know it.” 

“ Capital ! ” 

The color rushed to the girl’s face. 

“ Better and better ; I paid you a compliment, and 
you are blushing most charmingly. Look at me now 
— you won’t? That is charming, too, but it compels 
me to lean over you — round you — to see you.” 

Jane drew away, turning on him angrily. 

“ I’ve not seen a prettier bit of coquetry in many a 
long day.” And Mark himself drew back, putting his 
head a little on one side and looking at the flushed girl 
critically. 

“ You are laughing at me.” 

“ On my soul, you are mistaken. You have no more 
sincere admirer; but if Mrs. Saunders is not careful, 
she will spoil you by making you conscious — that’s a 
bit of criticism, cap it — say ‘ I love her, I owe her 
everything, but I cannot be blind, and cousin has her 
faults. She simply dotes on taffy, and in order to get 
91 


The Making of Jane 

all she wants, everything she does must needs be 
praised — I am one of the things she has done ; I must 
gain applause for her.’ You won’t say it? you loyal 
little child ! Not even in joke ; won’t you even say that 
she is vain? that she would like a little flirtation, and 
then look at me and smile knowingly, and nod ? ” 

Jane looked at him, but she did not smile. “ You 
are making very poor jokes,” she said, slowly. 

“ Granted ; I’m only giving you an object-lesson in 
pliability. You cannot be pliable ; don’t try.” Mark’s 
manner changed. “ Child,” he said, and laid his hand 
on hers, “ you don’t understand your cousin, and she 
makes a mistake in terms when she tells you to be pli- 
able. She means only that you should be merciful to 
faulty creatures like myself, not to reprimand me into 
sorrow, not to snub me into hopelessness. Will you 
mind if I straighten your hat a little? Just as you 
have it now the drooping brim hides your face en- 
tirely.” And without waiting for any permission, he 
pushed her hat gently. 

Jane did not look up, and Mark once more, leaning 
his elbow on the back of the bench, watched her, smil- 
ing. The silence weighed upon her presently, and she 
moved a little. 

“ I’m afraid that I have offended you,” Mark be- 
gan again; “you will have to forgive me. You 
seem a child to me, but I suppose I will have to 
learn to treat you differently. And then you mind 
such little things. I’ve tied girl’s sashes, I’ve hooked 
girl’s gowns, I’ve done up a girl’s hair, and many 
other things that would be — well — straightening 
92 


The Making of Jane 

a hat is nothing. Besides, we agreed that you were 
to practise little unconventionalities on me in order to 
prevent that grand explosion. All the same, I beg 
your pardon. Let me see that poem you are reading.” 
He took the book from her and opened where her fin- 
ger had held it. “ ‘ Geist’s Grave ’ ; let me read it to 
you.” And as he read, it seemed to be quite a differ- 
ent thing to Jane ; beauties came out that she had not 
dreamed of; the words seemed to bloom, and the ca- 
dences were full of music. He finished and she did 
not speak ; he waited a moment, then rose. “ Good- 
by,” he said. “ Forgive me ; I have not meant to 
offend.” 

The next morning on his way to his aunt's, Mark 
found her standing at the gate with Mr. Saunders, 
Creswick, and three small dogs. “ Lovely ! ” he said. 
“ Are they yours, Miss Ormonde ? ” 

“ Only one.” She stooped to pat a dachshund. 
“ This one ; his name is Geist.” And she looked up at 
Mark. 


93 


VIII 


“We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair ; thou art goodly, O 
Love ; 

♦ ••••••• 

Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of fire ; 

Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire.” 

J ANE had been taken to a number of afternoon en- 
tertainments of late years, and as a looker-on 
from behind Mrs. Saunders, had found them un- 
interesting; but she felt that the tea at Mrs. Creswick’s 
would be a very different affair, and under careful di- 
rections, dressed for it with some excitement. For the 
first time in her life she was pleased that her gown 
was beautiful ; that the maid pronounced her hat to be 
a dream; that Mr. Saunders applauded when he saw 
her. All this had happened before, and she had smiled 
because the maid amused her, because she loved her 
Cousin Henry, but now her pulse quickened; a light 
came into her eyes and an exquisite color into her 
cheeks. 

Mrs. Saunders looked at her critically. “ Very 
nice,” she said ; “ but all my efforts will be useless, Jane, 
unless you discover a little animation. Pray try to 
make yourself agreeable this afternoon, and to every- 
one, remember.” 

The tea was out on the lawn, and made a pretty pict- 
94 


The Making of Jane 

ure as they drove up. Laurence Creswick came to 
the carriage, and Mark Witting met them farther 
up the garden walk, dropping behind with Jane. 

Cousin ’ has exquisite taste,” he said in a low voice, 
nodding at Jane ; “ and she is wise not to let you ruin 
your complexion. See how odd these sunburned 
girls look in delicate summer fabrics and flowery hats. 
‘ Cousin ’ is wise. You look like a lily in a great bunch 
of sunflowers; and watch how the men will flutter 
about you. And please appreciate the men; we’ve 
labored unceasingly to get them. See, here comes old 
Mr. DeLong, wonderful old person, at least two hun- 
dred years old, but of course you have met him. Of 
course, Mr. DeLong, you know Miss Ormonde?” 

“ Only as a little girl, my dear Witting; a very small 
little girl, who was wonderfully quiet. So glad to 
renew our acquaintance, Miss Ormonde; as a child, 
you caused me much thought.” 

“ As a young woman she is also causing much 
thought,” Mark put in. 

“ Of course, of course ; but as a child, Miss Or- 
monde, you were so wonderfully good. You never 
fidgeted, you made no noise, and your eyes were so 
large and grave that they troubled me. Do you re- 
member at all what you thought about us grown-up 
people ? ” 

Jane shook her head. “ It was all a great puzzle,” 
she said. 

“ And now, Mr. DeLong, she is a great puzzle.” 

“ Naturally ; her sex always is.” ^ And the old man 
took off his hat with a little bow. 

95 


The Making of Jane 

Creswick was more with Jane than Mark was, but 
the girl had a consciousness that Mark was never very 
far away, and that his attentions to Mrs. Saunders 
were but another method of attaching himself to her. 
Nor was there anything conspicuous in the attentions 
of Laurence Creswick; and yet Jane was made grad- 
ually to know herself the centre and cause of the whole 
affair. It was a new sensation ; it seemed to make her 
blood run faster, her heart double its beats ; she felt as 
if she were talking and laughing excessively, and more 
than once glanced furtively at Mrs. Saunders. Mark 
intercepted one of these looks, and laughed as he shook 
his head at her. He was standing by Mrs. Saunders, 
and the color deepened in her face. “ She is such an 
irritating girl,” she said, coldly. “ To see her look at 
me, one might think me a tyrant, who had beaten her 
black and blue. I have charged her not to look at me 
at all when in company.” 

“ Who can blame her for longing for your approba- 
tion ? ” Mark asked. “ And who could think you a 
tyrant? And how exquisitely you dress her; is she 
properly grateful ? ” 

“ Grateful ? I don't for one moment think that she 
realizes what I have done for her.” 

“ Truly?” 

“ Can you not see it ? But of course I have not done 
it for gratitude. Wealth is a great responsibility, and 
it weighs on me that I must dispense mine wisely.” 

“ More wisely, more generously than anyone I 
know.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Witting!” 


9 6 


The Making of Jane 

“ Do you not know it ? Do you not realize that in 
your face, your eyes, you carry the story of your life ? ” 

“ I who have tried to make my face a mask? Don’t 
tell me that I have failed.” 

“ Shall I tell you what I see? Shall I say unsatisfied 
longings ? ” 

“ Why have we not known each other all these years ? 
I who have no friend who could understand — and 
now ? ” 

“ Now we will — we will — never mind what we 
will do.” And Mark nodded encouragingly. “ Other 
people besides immature girls can be fascinating, can 
have happy friendships ; is it not so ? ” 

“ Jane is looking at me again.” 

“ Smile and nod,” was ordered, and Mrs. Saunders 
obeyed. After this they found a bench, and Mark 
brought her an ice, and when good-byes were said he 
drove away with Mrs. Saunders and Jane. 

From this time events seemed to move more rapidly ; 
and as the weeks went on and the season culminated, 
instead of letting Jane go out a little as she had planned, 
Mrs. Saunders took her everywhere, and in addition 
made her own house a centre. Lunches, dinners, after- 
noons, followed each other in quick succession ; a con- 
tinual round of something to do, that caused her to be 
extremely popular. She still, however, kept a strict 
watch on hats and veils for Jane, still drew the line at 
the golf-links in the morning, still went for treatment, 
leaving Jane close at home. The deep piazza was Mr. 
Saunders’s haunt, the bench on the lawn was Jane’s. 
Creswick was there sometimes, but much oftener it 

9 7 


The Making of Jane 

was Mark ; and at last one day Mark said : “ Unless 
you prefer to be conspicuous, there is a pleasanter 
place for this bench ; may I move it ? ” And without 
waiting for an answer, he picked up the bench and put 
it farther back in a copse that sheltered it completely 
on every side. The next morning Creswick came, and 
looked about in vain until Geist, catching sight of him, 
rushed forth, revealing the new retreat. 

“ How charming ! ” he said, as he stooped under the 
arching shrubs ; “ how much nicer than full fronted on 
the road.” 

Mark came, too, that morning, but lingered only a 
moment to get a book, he said; later, he came back 
with Mrs. Saunders in the carriage from the springs. 
Again Geist barked, and Mark said/‘ So ho ! the bench 
is moved ; shall we find it ? ” 

“ I must,” Mrs. Saunders answered ; and they found 
it, and Creswick, reading aloud to Jane. A startled 
expression came into the girl’s eyes and a little wonder 
as she looked at Mark ; but he and Mrs. Saunders were 
all smiles, and he said, “ Geist did it.” 

Later Mrs. Saunders asked Jane, “ Does Mr. Cres- 
wick come often in the morning? ” 

“ Quite often.” 

“ Do you like him ? ” 

“ Yes.” Then the color faded from the girl’s face, 
but no further questions were asked. 

And so time sped until September came; and the 
first touch of autumn in the air, and Mrs. Saunders 
declared that she must go to the mountains before re- 
turning to town. She had been keeping house all sum- 
98 


The Making of Jane 

mer, and must have a little rest at some good hotel as 
preparation for the winter’s work. They were at the 
inn listening to some music when she made this an- 
nouncement, and Mark, sitting next to her, said: 
“ This has been the happiest summer of my life. ,> 

“ And I have found a comrade,” she answered. 

“ Do you really need to go ? ” 

“ Yes ; many things say go ; go while people still 
want you.” 

“ What nonsense ! you know that you are always 
wanted ; that you have been the heart and soul of the 
summer to the whole community, and to ” 

“ Surely the community is enough ? ” 

“ Surely, if it satisfies you.” 

“ Teased ; how easily.” 

“ In your hands I am as wax.” 

“ I shall, then, mould you into a patient man, who 
will wait quietly until the winter.” 

“ Mould me, rather, into a calculating machine, that 
will count the days and the hours until the winter. But 
you will not be so closely chaperoned in the winter, 
will you? ” 

“ You nonsensical creature! ” 

“ You are hard-hearted.” 

“ It is time to go home.” 

“ You are cruel ; but you will come again next year? 
The treatment has done much for your complexion; 
it has moved from good up to perfect.” 

“ Yes, I shall come again ; it is a charming place ! ” 

Jane had heard Mrs. Saunders’s announcement as to 
leaving the Springs, and had tried to hear more, but 

L.ofC. 99 


The Making of Jane 

Mark’s voice was low, and she could only hope that 
he was persuading Mrs. Saunders to reconsider. He 
had a strange amount of influence over her cousin, and 
the next morning when he came to the bench she asked 
him. 

“ I did my best,” he said, “ but she will go. You 
will be sorry? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ You’ll miss Creswick? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You like him? ” And Mark laughed a little. 

Jane nodded. “ He’s very nice.” 

“ Only nice ? ” 

“ He is earnest ; I believe in him. He does not tease 
one, and set one problems to solve ; he is restful.” 

“ And nice.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I’m content.” There was a pause, then Mark took 
the embroidery out of the girl’s hands and put it to 
one side. “ Look at me,” he said, “ and listen. You 
are going away presently, and it is time you under- 
stood certain things.” 

A tremor went over the girl, but her look did not 
waver. 

“ I’ve taught you much this summer,” Mark went 
on, “ and now the time has come for another lesson. 
In his quiet, gentlemanly way, Creswick is in love with 
you.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” and Jane drew back as from a blow. 

r< Yes, and soon he will tell you so.” 

All color left the girl’s face. “ Please ask him not 
to,” she pleaded. 


TOO 


The Making of Jane 

Mark laughed. “ It’s quite a triumph ; he’s a great 
catch,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, just say no; but 
do not hurt him ; be gentle, not fierce, as very young 
girls often are when they do not like a man ; be gentle, 
and keep him your friend. Be sure you do that, else 
you will have trouble. Now, mind me.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Of course I’ve known all along,” Mark continued, 
“ how it would be, how he would love you, but be quite 
unable to get your heart out of storage. You know — 
realize — that your heart has been in cold storage all 
these years? Has been frozen, has been torpid until 
I came? Mrs. Kennet told me this, and I realized it 
the moment I saw you ; I realized, too, that I could take 
it out and warm it into life.” 

There was a look of startled wonder, almost of fear 
in the girl’s eyes, and the color had mounted up to the 
roots of her pretty hair. 

“ And you need not deny that I have done it, child, 
nor be afraid.” He was leaning back, looking out 
through the opening in the shrubbery. “ And I’ve been 
very wrong to do it,” he went on, as if to himself ; “ very 
wrong, for you know I am a poor man ; not a pauper 
exactly, but poor. At the same time,” turning sud- 
denly to face her, “ at the same time I love you ; hear 
me, I love you. I love you so that it nearly wrecks 
me. Love you so that I can scarcely keep my head 
to play my part in the daily round. I’ve read some- 
where that long before any moral obliquity has been 
shown in life or action, the character has been eaten 
away ; my character, unknown to me, must have rusted 


IOI 


The Making of Jane 

out long ago, for I am ready to do almost anything to 
win you. Don’t be afraid ; I shall not touch you — not 
yet.” 

No snow was any whiter than Jane’s face now, no 
stars any brighter than her eyes, and her hands were 
wrung together in her lap. 

“ No, not yet,” and Mark clasped his hands on top 
his walking-stick that was between his knees, and 
leaned with his cheek down on them, looking at Jane 
sidewise. “Not yet,” he said once more; “not yet; 
it is enough to have told you, enough to sit and watch 
the color come and go, watch the light in your eyes, 
and know that I can summon it. To look at your love- 
ly, tender youth and know that you are mine. This 
is enough for this time. Two bites of a cherry? I 
believe in absolutely nibbling my cherry ; in holding it 
up and looking at it in every light, in thinking about 
it, before some day I crush the dear life-blood out of 
it. Don’t tremble, little one; don’t be afraid of me. 
How many times have I danced with you and barely 
guided you ; how many times have I laid my hands on 
yours in seeming friendship? No, I shall not touch 
you, but I have something further to teach you. You 
must trust me ; you must behave as if this had not hap- 
pened, were not so, else I’ll have to leave you. That 
shakes you? Well, it is in your hands. Quiet your 
heart that I see beating there under your frock, in your 
pretty white throat. How it throbs, my heart ! It is 
in your hands, sweet one, whether I stay in your life, 
or leave you to Creswick and his quiet, gentlemanly 
affection. You’ll keep silent? ‘ Cousin ’ won’t expect 


102 


The Making of Jane 

you to tell her; she says you never tell her any- 
thing — so you’ll keep silent for a little while ? ” 

“ Yes.” It was only a sigh, but he heard it. 

“ And you’ll treat Creswick kindly when he speaks. 
So, now I must go ; ‘ cousin ’ will soon be coming from 
the springs. She’s getting fatter, I think, but I’d not 
risk my life telling her so. Here’s your work; stay 
here until you’ve thought it all over quietly. It would 
not do for you to meet even Simmons looking as you 
look now. You remember that I told you about the 
grand explosion, the grand finale that would surely 
come to you some day? You realize it now as Cres- 
wick could never have made you realize it. I’ve been 
wrong to do it — perfectly wrong — but then I seldom 
do right. I am a bad man, child, do not deceive your- 
self, a very bad man, and I’ve been training you up to 
this for months, coolly and deliberately, and you will 
never be the same again, never. But I love you, don’t 
forget that; I love you. We ride this afternoon, you 
remember; to-night we dance at the inn. Do not be 
surprised if I ride beside Mrs. Saunders, and if I do 
not dance with you at all. I may only look at my 
cherry until she becomes accustomed to being my 
cherry.” Then he took his hat and without one back- 
ward glance went quietly away. 

Slowly, as if out of a mist, Jane saw the shrubbery 
about her resume its place in her vision. If her heart 
would not beat quite so loud, if the rushing sound 
would go out of her ears, she might realize things bet- 
ter. She took up her embroidery which Mark had laid 
on her lap ; her trembling hands made that impossible, 
103 


The Making of Jane 

and she laid it down again. She would never be the 
same again, he said; of course not; she would never 
want to be the same again. And all his attentions to 
Mrs. Saunders had been meant for her, Jane. Did 
Mrs. Saunders realize this? Would she like it? He 
knew better than she did, and he had said be silent. 
Never the same again ; she had lived a whole life since 
breakfast, how could she be the same? All this time 
he had been loving her and making her to love him, 
and she had not realized it. She had never read any 
love-story like this, never ; the things she had read had 
been quite different, had been, in a way, religious. 
Mark said that he was bad, a bad man ; was he? Was 
all that he had said and done wrong? She would like 
to ask Laurence Creswick, he was always so sure about 
right and wrong, but of course she could not, of course 
not. She could only trust Mark and wait in silence. 

She did not know how long she sat there before 
Geist rushed out barking, followed closely back by 
Mrs. Saunders. Jane had one second’s warning, and 
bent over her work. 

“ Alone ? ” she said ; “ truly, it is time for us to be 
gone. You’d better come in; there’s no use in your 
waiting here any longer, especially as we have lunch 
earlier to-day on account of the ride. Come in.” 

It was a beautiful ride that afternoon, and though 
Mark rode beside her for a few moments only, riding 
in turn with every member of the party, finishing the 
last long home stretch with Mrs. Saunders, yet for 
Jane that ride was filled with joy. She knew now 
what Mark was thinking when he looked at her, and 
104 


The Making of Jane 

somehow she could talk and laugh more easily; she 
seemed to have more confidence in herself; and Mrs. 
Saunders hearing her, said to Mark, “ I’m glad to hear 
that girl talking ; she has evidently taken my warning 
as to making herself agreeable. I found her sitting 
alone in the arbor this morning, and I suggested that 
it was time we were going away. When even Lau- 
rence Creswick, who is too mild to require much hold- 
ing, once he is attracted, when even he leaves her alone, 
it is time that she exert herself.” 

Mark laughed. “ Alone, this morning, did you say ? 
Poor little girl ; I’d have come myself to entertain her ; 
all the same, I think that Creswick is much attracted, 
and in time he will propose.” 

“ As you say,” Mrs. Saunders went on ; “ she chaper- 
ones me tremendously.” 

“ She does, indeed. Will she not have classes this 
winter in the mornings ? It will not do to let her mind 
go to waste.” 

“ It would be bad.” 

“ Or there is another solution.” And he looked 
boldly into Mrs. Saunders’s eyes that were shining. 
“ Let me marry her.” 

“ You — marry — her! ” 

“ Exactly ; think a minute, and you will see.” 

“ You love her?” 

“ That’s an unnecessary question. As her husband, 
I shall be your cousin — son — brother.” 

Mrs. Saunders drew a long breath. “ She is young 
— as your wife ” 

Mark laughed lightly. “A bud is a hard little 
knob,” he said. “ You can see into the heart of a rose.” 
105 


The Making of Jane 

“ You’d love to watch a bud expand? ” 

“I’d love to look into the heart of an expanded rose 
— I read some verses once — 

* The rose has burst forth into gorgeous bloom, 

And the sun kissing deep in the glorious gloom 
Of its quivering heart, 

Made it happy — ’ ” 

and again he laughed lightly. 

That night Miss Witting appeared at the inn to 
watch the dancing; Mrs. Kennet was there, too, and 
old Mr. DeLong, all of them sitting together. 

“ Jane Saunders holds her own wonderfully,” Mrs. 
Kennett said. “ She does not look a day over thirty- 
five.” 

“ In another year she’ll be hopelessly fat.” And 
Mr. DeLong shook his head up and down. 

“ She tells me that she is renewing her youth in her 
dear girl.” And Miss Witting chuckled. 

“ I suppose she was looking to the future when she 
adopted her,” Mrs. Kennet said ; “ a flower for the 
bees that one wishes to hive; it seems to me just now, 
however, to be your dear nephew with whom she is 
renewing her youth.” 

Again Miss Witting chuckled. “ He will have to 
see me home,” she said. “ I’ll ask him — I’ll warn him 
not to blight her young affections. I’ve never been 
able to bring myself to believe in Jane Saunders ; she’s 
so false that she does not know it; would not know 
truth if she met that lady face to face — Truth is a lady, 
is she not ? ” 


The Making of Jane 

“ By courtesy/’ And Mrs. Kennet smiled at Mr. 
DeLong. 

“ I never contradict a lady.” And he bowed. 

“ But you sometimes go against truth,” Miss Witting 
retorted. “ However, I’ll test Mark’s manners in the 
matter of truth. I really think that he always tells me 
the truth; I really do.” And going home, she said: 
“ You seem to be verv attentive to Mrs. Saunders, 
Mark.” 

“ Of course, aunt ; don’t you see the logic of it ? ” 

“ But you need not talk to her until her eyes shine 
and her cheeks get too red.” 

“ Only sweet dalliance, auntie ; she’s married ; she 
loves her world and its good opinion.” 

“ Of course ! of course ! I don’t mind about her ; 
but the girl, she’s a sweet thing.” 

“ And I love her ; I swear it.” 

“ I’ve heard you say that before.” 

“ This time I’ll stake my life on it.” 

“What a risk! But this time I’m interested, be- 
cause I’ve taken a fancy to the girl ; she must be al- 
most a saint living with Jane Saunders so long, and I 
insist on two things: first, if you hurt the girl, I cut 
you off without a cent ; second^ I don’t * take my shoes 
off until I go to bed,’ and you must not marry a poor 
girl, depending on me for your living. For the rest, 
you can play this game as you like. I don’t care a snap 
of my finger for Jane Saunders ; but you should be care- 
ful, Mark, for you are not a good man; remember 
that.” 

“ And never pretend to be.” 

107 


The Making of Jane 

“ But it’s only if you behave yourself that I’ll remem- 
ber you — and maybe more.” 

“ Of course more ; I carry on your family name, and 
am the most presentable and successful of your 
nephews. But bad as you think me, I love the girl. 
Her eyes are like stars, auntie, pure, clean stars; and 
her lips — I scarcely dare think of them.” 

The old lady sighed. 

“You understand, auntie?” 

“ Does the girl love you ? ” 

“ I have great hopes.” 

“ Laurence Creswick ? ” 

“ Is my most dangerous rival. His fortune is sure, 
you see; mine is not; and Mrs. Saunders knows it; 
came here because the Cres wicks were here. I’m 
playing rather a dangerous game, and I will tell you 
true, auntie, a game I could not play if I were a good 
man.” 

“ Or Jane Saunders a sensible woman.” 

“ The root and ground of her offending is self,” 
Mark answered. “ When we are our own centre and 
circumference, we can sink to any depth of misdoing ; 
we can rise to any height of folly. That’s the reason 
I’ve always made such a point of being unselfish, 
auntie.” 

“ Exactly ; what makes your wickedness so black, 
Mark, is that you do everything so deliberately.” 

“ Of course, else it would cease to be wickedness 
and become folly ; but here we are ; you’ll forgive me 
and kiss me for good-night, auntie ? ” 

“Yes, because you are interesting; but if you hurt 
108 


The Making of Jane 

that girl, I’ll disinherit you, without fail ; on the other 
hand, you must not marry on the strength of my will.” 

“ I shall marry only for love,” Mark answered ; then 
he went back to the dance and told Mrs. Saunders that 
his aunt had spoken of his attentions to her. “ You’d 
better let me be your cousin by marriage,” he finished. 
“ Instead,” she answered, “ I’ll go away.” 


109 


IX 


“ Alter ? when the hills do. 


Falter? when the sun 
Question if his glory 
Be the perfect one.” 


HEY had been back in town for some weeks ; it 



X was Mrs. Saunders’s day at home, and Jane sat 
alone in the drawing-room, waiting for the first ring 
of the bell. She was in no state of expectation as yet, 
however, for it was early, very early ; far too early for 
anyone to come, but Mrs. Saunders insisted that it was 
Jane’s duty to be in the drawing-room at thfs abnormal 
hour. “ It is the least you can do,” she declared, “ to 
give me ease in this matter. Everything that I am do- 
ing, I am doing for you, and it is hard if I can get no 
help. All morning I am busy, and I must rest after 
lunch.” So Jane was at her post, walking about rest- 
lessly, pausing to touch a flower, to look critically at 
the tea-table, to stand a moment before the fire. 

The winter had held some surprises for Jane. Many 
times she had heard Mrs. Saunders say, “ When you 
come out, you can do this ; when you are a young lady, 
that will be quite proper.” So that gradually there 
had grown up in the girl a feeling that she would have 
much more liberty of action than it now seemed prob- 
able that she would enjoy. She had found classes in 


i io 


The Making of Jane 

French and German arranged for her mornings ; she 
found herself taken to dressmakers and milliners with 
as little consultation as in her childhood ; she found 
that in public she was more than ever kept close to 
Mrs. Saunders’s side, and further, she found herself 
restless and lonely as she had never been before. There 
were other arrangements, also, which, though small, 
were surprising. Instead of a maid going with her 
to and from her classes, she found that Simmons and 
Joseph were to alternate in attending her, and Sim- 
mons so fussy about breaking his routine before lunch, 
and Mrs. Saunders so hesitating about giving him extra 
orders. Mrs. Saunders, too, was different. Gayety 
and hilarity such as Jane had never experienced in her 
before, that made Mr. Saunders stare, alternated with 
a gloomy coldness that was as trying as it was inex- 
plicable, of an absent-minded dreaminess that in a 
woman of Mrs. Saunders’s alert, calculating temper 
was astonishing. 

But to Jane, the strangest part of these first weeks 
in town had been Mark Witting. She had never seen 
him alone, nor had had any talk with him since that 
morning on the bench when he had made her betray 
so much — that talk, that, though the memory of it still 
made her face to burn, yet had come to seem almost 
a dream. She had promised to be quiet, to trust him, 
but whether she had promised or not, there was noth- 
ing else now for her to do. He had come to the re- 
ception that had introduced her to the world, he was 
coming to the series of dinners which Mrs. Saunders 
was now giving, he was always in the theatre parties, 
ill 


The Making of Jane 

and had been given a standing invitation to the opera 
box once the opera began. He even came to their 
afternoons at home; but never once had he alluded, 
even by a look, to that last talk on the bench ; never 
once had he sent her a note, never once a flower. 

She had turned these things over and over in her 
mind many, many times; she was turning them over 
now as she walked restlessly to and fro. “ I was wise 
to make a rule against expectation,” she said to her- 
self. She paused in her thoughts; she had never 
formulated what, in this case, she meant by “ expecta- 
tion/’ and the color burned in her cheeks. It was an 
odious suggestion to crop up, and she turned away 
quickly, mind and body, from this confusion of 
thought. She walked to the fire, and, taking up the 
shining tongs, a thing she was never permitted to do, 
she poked it. Instantly Simmons appeared, and she 
looked up guiltily. “ I was only so tired, Simmons,” 
she said. 

“ Sure, miss, that’s natural ; but your hands, Miss 
Jane.” 

“ Your tongs would not soil them, Simmons.” And 
she sat down wearily. 

The servant gone, the thoughts she had turned from 
came back to her. The young men she was meeting 
did not please her, and she was lonely, strangely lonely. 
Perhaps if Creswick would come to town things would 
be better; she wished that he would not stay so long 
with his grandmother - But what use in thinking 
about it ; in reasoning or wondering ; in putting the 
rather bald reality of the winter down beside her in- 


112 


The Making of Jane 

tangible but brilliant dreams. What use in trying to 
deceive herself with the thought that the men she was 
now meeting were not interesting? Whom did she 
compare them with ? Mark Witting, of course ! and 
there was no use in putting Creswick’s name along with 
Mark Witting’s. No use in beating about the bush. 
She could only be quiet. She had promised to trust 
Mark, and Creswick was soon coming for the winter; 
then, perhaps, things would mend. He had come 
down for the reception and for one or two of the din- 
ners, and any day might be expected finally. He had 
written her one or two notes and several times had 
sent her flowers ; but to her great relief he had not as 
yet fulfilled Mark Witting’s prediction. That predic- 
tion had made Jane uneasy for a time; had rendered 
her constrained when in Creswick’s company, a change 
that had puzzled him, and that, of course, had influ- 
enced him. Time, however, had worn away her ap- 
prehension of an awkward moment, and in her present 
state of mind, she often found herself thinking of 
Creswick’s quiet friendship with something like long- 
ing. He had never failed her ; there had been no ups 
and downs in their intercourse, and she hoped that 
when he came she would cease to feel this loneliness 
which she so frequently felt now. 

So she was walking about and thinking, when the 
portiere was lifted and Creswick himself was an- 
nounced. In her preoccupation she had heard noth- 
ing, and now started violently. 

“ How strange ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Why strange?” 

1 13 


The Making of Jane 

“ I was thinking about you/’ 

“ Telepathy, quite natural ; but you are not looking 
yourself ; going too much ? ” 

“ I don’t think it is that.’’ And they sat down. 

“ Then you are not happy ? ” 

Jane looked up quickly. “ I’ve been lonely — every- 
thing is different — the young men ” The confes- 

sion came hesitatingly, as if she were deciding for the 
first time that these things were so. 

“ Your hills are green,” Creswick interrupted, “ and 
as for the young men, they are young, that is all ; they 
want the earth all at once, and don’t know yet that to 
give is to gain; but what has become of Witting? ” 

“ He is in town, but I have seen nothing of him.” 

“ So ? And what else has happened ? ” 

“ I have lessons every morning.” 

“ Really, you surprise me ; but why lessons ? ” 

“ Cousin wishes me to keep up the languages. I 
don’t mind it, really, and rather enjoy the walk back 
and forth.” 

“And you really see very little of Witting? Are 
not he and Mrs. Saunders good friends ? ” 

“ Why, yes, I believe so.” 

“ I only meant that your seeing so little of him, he 
and Mrs. Saunders might have fallen out. Witting 
is so strangely frank, you know.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And I am sorry that your first winter has not been 
all that you dreamed it would be.” 

“ I cannot say that I had any dreams ; it was rather 
the pleasantness of the summer that has made the con- 

114 


The Making of Jane 

trast. The summer went beyond any hopes I had ever 
indulged in ; it was charming.” 

“ It was, indeed.” Something in his voice made 
Jane look up, and she saw that in his eyes which 
brought back to her Mark Witting’s prophecy. The 
wretched, betraying color rushed to her face. 

“ Don’t look away, Miss Ormonde,” Creswick went 
on. “ There is no use in trying to avoid what I have 
come especially to say, have come shamefully early on 
purpose to say ; that is, if I were so fortunate as to find 
you alone. You don’t know at all how I am going to 
put it; I promise you it will not be bad.” And he 
laughed a little. “ Truly, truly I am not going to ask 
you anything ; look this way, please. I am only going 
to tell you something.” 

Creswick’s amused laugh had given Jane a shock, 
had made her cold with the dread that she had mistaken 
his look, and for the moment she hated Mark Witting 
because his prophecy had stuck in her mind. 

“ I’m only going to tell you about myself,” Creswick 
went on ; “ tell you that I love you very much, and that 
I hope some day to win you. You need not feel any 
embarrassment about it ; indeed, if you had been a lit- 
tle more experienced you would have seen it long ago. 
I have loved you from that first walk, I think, and I 
think as surely that I shall love you to the end of my 
life. If you do not, if you never learn to love me, it 
will be just the same, so that you need feel no uneasi- 
ness. I am years older than you are, and I have a 
habit of knowing my own mind; and my mind is to 
wait, and watch, and love you, in the hope that some 

«5 


The Making of Jane 

day you may come to love me, in the certain knowledge 
that some day you will need a friend.” 

As he spoke Jane’s self-consciousness, her misery 
faded away. His face was so strong, his eyes were so 
gentle, his voice rang so true. When he paused, her 
eyes, that now were raised to his, were full of tears. 

“ You do not mind,” he said, and held out his hand. 

“ I don’t deserve it.” And as simply as he did it, 
she put her hand in his. One moment he held it, look- 
ing down, as if communing with himself, then laid it 
on her knee. “ Thank you,” he said slowly, “ and God 
bless you for your sympathy. You have not promised 
anything, remember, and when I am gone, you must 
not feel frightened or worried. I know that you do 
not love me, but I wanted you to know that I loved 
you — that you can always depend on me, and I shall 
talk to you about it very often. Not on my knees, you 
know, not swearing ‘ before high Heaven,’ but only as 
being the main element of my life. Anything that one 
thinks about and feels about continually, must neces- 
sarily come into one’s talk with one’s nearest friend; 
besides, I think that it may be some protection to you 
in your life in the world. You are so very young for 
your years, you are so very ignorant, that, though 
guarded and watched as you are, you yet may rush into 
danger ; and if you will learn to look on me as a confi- 
dential friend, as one who will always love you, will 
always be on your side, even if disapproving, who will 
never hesitate to stand between you and the world, it 
may be a safeguard to you far more sure than any 
watching. You will remember this, won’t you, and you 
1 16 


The Making of Jane 

will rely on it, turn to it? Give me your hand on it, 
and good-by. I’d rather not meet anyone just now.” 
Then he went away so quietly that the closing of the 
front door after him roused Jane with a shock. 

She sprang up. “ Mr. Creswick ! ” But he did not 
hear her, and she waited breathless, fearing that Sim- 
mons had. And why had she called? What would 
she have said if he had come back ? He had not asked 
her to say anything any more than Mark had; Mark 
because she had betrayed herself, and this one because 
he only wanted permission to give — give the best that 
he had. If he had come back what would she have 
said? She sat down slowly. Her life had been so 
barren of love, was that it — was it the novelty of love 
that she found so — she paused for a word. She shook 
her head; she could find no word for what she felt. 
Her heart had been kept in cold storage, Mark Witting 
had said, and it was true, and as true that he had taken 
it out ; then how hopeless was Creswick’s position ; and 
she had promised Mark to be silent; Mark, who now 
scarcely seemed to be aware of her existence. Her 
restlessness returned, and when Mrs. Saunders came 
down she was asked not to pace about like a wild ani- 
mal in a cage. 

“ I have so often told you, Jane, that repose is the 
atmosphere of a lady.” 

“ Yes, cousin.” 

“ I see Laurence Creswick’s card in the hall.” 

“ He would not let you be disturbed.” 

“ He was dreadfully early ; has he come down for 
the winter ? ” 


U7 


The Making of Jane 

“ Yes.” 

“ It’s time his grandmother set him free. Ah, Mrs. 
Brown, so glad to see you ! ” And Jane released from 
further catechism, took her seat at the tea-table. 

At the dinner the next evening, Mark Witting sat 
almost opposite to Jane, who had been assigned to 
Creswick. “ She is a charming looking girl,” the 
woman on Mark’s right said to him. 

“ She?” Mark queried. 

“ Miss Ormonde ; you were looking at her ? ” 

“ I might not have been seeing her.” 

“ Scarcely ; she is a picture to-night, and Larry 
Creswick seems to be absorbed.” 

“ Some people are like sponges.” 

“ Are you jealous, or simply spiteful? ” 

“ Either ; both ; what does it matter when a fellow is 
poor ? ” 

“ But she is the adopted daughter ; Mr. Saunders 
told me so himself, and of course will have ample 
dowry ; and then your aunt.” 

“ As she elegantly expresses it — ‘ Will not take off 
her shoes until she goes to bed ’ ; and she may sit up 
late, you know.” 

His companion laughed. “ She is getting so tot- 
tery I should think she’d like to move on and get some 
wings to help her legs. It’s wings we’re to have, isn’t 
it?” 

“ Who knows. Legs are good enough for me if I 
can afford horses. But Miss Ormonde is charming, 
and if I were Creswick, with the ball at my feet, I be- 
lieve I’d kick it in her direction.” 

118 


The Making of Jane 

“ How flattered she’d be if she could hear you ; but 
she seems to have ears for Larry only. If she has any 
sense she’ll accept him ; he’s the best fellow I know.” 

“ It would be wise. He’d be good to her, and give 
her more liberty in one day than she has had in all her 
life put together. I came over on the steamer with 
them this spring, and have seen something of them 
this summer. My aunt, who knows everybody and 
everything, says that from her earliest childhood the 
girl has not claimed even her own hands and feet.” 

“ Dreadful ! how much does Mr. Saunders claim ? ” 

“ His legs — to get away on. All the same, I find 
Mrs. Saunders most entertaining. She’s one of the 
cleverest women I’ve met in a long time. He is dull — 
dull as the average ditch-water, but very good.” 

“ < With stupidity and sound digestion, man may 
front much ’ — he may not mind having nothing but legs 
to get away on.” 

“ Perhaps ; but I’d break her will or die in the at- 
tempt.” 

“ How transcendent ! Perhaps the poor woman has 
been made into a tyrant by subserviency. Was the 
money hers ? ” 

“ Most of it.” 

“ And I’ve never heard of her as clever.” 

“ An admirable business woman.” 

“ Oh, money-sense ! I thought you meant intellect. 
I have money-sense myself.” 

“ I’d consider myself enormously clever if I had 
sense enough to get money.” 

“ You have ; you have every requisite for marrying 
a rich girl.” 


19 


The Making of Jane 

“ Fve promised my aunt, my dear, virtuous aunt, 
who holds the golden spoon just out of the reach of 
my mouth, that I’d marry only for love.” 

“In this commercial day and generation? You’ve 
become morbid.” 

“ Else she won’t leave me her money.” 

“ What an impossible old person.” 

“ No, that’s her fad. Some people have a fad for 
dogs, some for doctors, some for religion, some for 
stamps ; her fad is love. She was in love herself once.” 

“ Pathetic.” 

“ Most ; but according to her, I must neither marry 
for money, nor marry depending on her money; so 
you must kindly point out a girl with money, and 
I’ll fall in love with her.” 

“ Miss Ormonde.” 

“ I’m in love with her already, but am not sure 
about that dowry ; and think what a disagreeable hus- 
band I’d make if I were poor.” 

“ Very true ; but Mr. Saunders told me that the girl 
was his adopted daughter.” 

“ And Mrs. Saunders holds the reins and the purse- 
strings.” 

“ I see ; but as you know Madame so well, why not 
ask for permission to propose? Tell her your pros- 
pects, and she’d tell you the girl’s.” 

Mark laughed. “ I’m not a lion-tamer.” 

“ Afraid of her? ” 

“ Deadly.” 

“ How interesting ; then I’d better look elsewhere 
for an heiress for you, and you had better begin to call 
your heart home.” 


120 


The Making of Jane 

“ You are quite right.” But after dinner he found 
his way to Jane's side. 

“ You did not look at me once during dinner,” he 
said. 

“ Did I not?” 

“ And do not even realize it. I’m afraid that you 
are losing faith in me; or is Creswick interfering?” 

“ Mr. Creswick is my very good friend.” 

“ And I?” 

Jane did not answer; did not look up. 

“ So, little one,” his voice lowering to a tone of ex- 
quisite tenderness, “ the test has been too hard ? Child, 
child, you do not know. My love has not wavered, 
does not waver, will never waver; but if you choose 
to throw me over I cannot help it. I cannot just now 
behave any differently; things are against me. If I 
could claim you before the world, God knows how 
gladly I’d do it; but here comes Creswick.” And he 
went away to where Mrs. Saunders was making herself 
agreeable to an important personage, leaving Jane in a 
state of tremulous bewilderment that presently crystal- 
lized into fear and a suddenly awakened conscience. 

The phrase, “ Claim her before the world,” made her 
see herself as plunged in deceit. Never in her life had 
she willingly told Mrs. Saunders anything ; but neither 
had she wilfully concealed anything since the days of 
the “ candy money.” In the summer just gone, when 
Mark had said, “ Keep this quiet, your cousin says that 
you never tell her anything,” she had agreed ; and had 
felt no qualms, had not realized her position; and 
Mark’s ignoring of her, after reaching town, had made 
121 


The Making of Jane 

her feel that there was nothing to tell, had made her to 
grow hot and cold over what Mrs. Saunders might 
have said if she had betrayed herself. But now things 
were coming home to her in a new light. Creswick’s 
avowal had been made at a moment when Mark’s neg- 
lect had reached a climax of hurt humiliation; when 
she was lonely and was laughing herself to scorn for 
having expected anything, for believing in any estimate 
of herself other than Mrs. Saunders’s, which was not 
exhilarating. Mrs. Saunders had never commended 
her that she could remember, save in a tentative way — 
“ I had hoped that you were improving, Jane ; that you 

would be a credit, but now ” Then all of Jane’s 

failings, from the first wiping of her eyes on her sleeve, 
would be passed in review. 

No, Jane had had no encouragement in vanity, in 
self-esteem, until the summer just gone had brought 
her face to face with an astonishing suspicion that she 
had possibilities of some kind within her. She had had 
much attention, and two men of the world, men of un- 
questioned standing, had declared their submission to' 
her charms, and for the first time it had come to her 
to look forward a little. But on coming to town all 
this had failed her, and she had once more descended 
into the valley of humiliation, there to wander until 
Creswick’s avowal had once again led her up into a 
more soothing atmosphere and had left a comforting 
assurance that her summer had not been a dream ; that 
if Mark Witting had repented him, had found her dif- 
ferent in a different environment, had wearied of her, 
that Creswick, at least, was true to his summer atten- 


122 


The Making of Jane 

tions. It had been a bitter period to the girl, though, 
true to the habit of her life, she had made no sign, and 
she was grateful to Creswick that he had poured balm 
into her wounded self-respect ; but no sooner had this 
been done, no sooner had she drawn a few calm breaths, 
than Mark had once more stepped in and had thrown 
over her the old bewildering glamour. There had 
been a passionate tremor in his low voice, in his hurry- 
ing words, and in his eyes a look that had set all her 
pulses throbbing. He had meant all that he had said 
in the summer; was holding her to her promise of 
silence. Then across the quiet talk of Creswick which 
she was not hearing, across the thrilling memory of 
Mark’s hurried words, there arose the horrid realiza- 
tion that she was concealing something serious, was 
wilfully deceiving Mrs. Saunders, was playing false to 
Creswick. She made a half-smothered exclamation 
and looked up guiltily at her companion. 

He stopped suddenly in his talk. “ What is it ? ” 
he asked. 

She shook her head, the blood dyeing her cheeks, 
her throat, her forehead. “ Nothing,” she answered 
quickly ; “ it is nothing.” 

Quietly and kindly Creswick went on talking, while 
she made up her mind that she must tell him. She 
must first ask Mark’s permission, and if he did not re- 
lease her from her promise of silence, she would break 
it ; anything would be better than her present position. 

It was at a ball that the moment came, and watching 
Jane dancing with Creswick, Mark said : “ My aunt 
has heard further remarks about my attentions to you.” 
123 


The Making of Jane 

“ How is that possible ? ” Mrs. Saunders returned 
quickly. 

“ I don’t know, unless, perhaps, it is servants’ gos- 
sip ; but I thought it would be wise if I should call on 
Miss Ormonde once or twice; if I should dance with 
her more. Creswick’s attentions are so favorably re- 
ceived, that the world could only pity mine as being 
hopeless. It will be wiser to heed public opinion, I 
think.” 

Mrs. Saunders patted her foot on the floor impa- 
tiently. 

“ You love your world, you know,” Mark went on. 

“ How absurd you are ; what have I done to endan- 
ger the opinion of my world ? ” 

“ One need rouse only the faintest suspicion.” 

“ And you think the suspicion has been roused ? ” 

“ I have given you my grounds.” 

“ Some stray remarks of your aunt, who is an old 
cat.” 

“ With sharp claws. Let me pay attention to some 
other girl than Miss Ormonde, then.” 

“ You are impertinent ; pay attention to whom you 
please.” 

“ Now you are speaking like a wise woman.” And 
immediately he moved away to where Jane was stand- 
ing with an ardent boy, who, meanwhile, had suc- 
ceeded Creswick. 

“ My dance, Miss Ormonde,” Mark said quietly. 

“ Indeed — ” the boy began. 

“ At least a share of it,” Mark amended. “ If you 
have forgotten, Miss Ormonde, I have not.” 

124 


The Making of Jane 

“ Oh ! I say,” the boy began once more. 

“ It was all mine,” Mark asserted ; “ and to relieve 
Miss Ormonde of embarrassment, I give you half my 
dance.” 

“ Then we’d better begin at once.” And the boy 
whirled Jane away. Mark waited, and when, for 
the second time, they were passing him, he stopped 
them. Jane had said no word in the matter, and now 
when Mark moved off with her so quietly, so posses- 
sively down the ball-room, she seemed to have stepped 
into another world. 

“ I longed to thrash that doltish boy,” he said, 
“ claiming my property and then the way he danced ! 
He slung you about the room as if you had been a foot- 
ball. I watched you dance as long as I could bear it ; 
at last I had to come and take you.” 

“ Someone will hear you.” 

“ My child, I’m old in this sort of thing. I’m hold- 
ing my head well up ; my eyes are watching coldly this 
cyclonic crowd, that they may not run into you; my 
mustache covers my lips, and no one, not even lynx- 
eyed ‘ cousin/ would suspect that I am talking to you. 
And you’ve never danced before, have you, darling? 
Not even when with me have you ever danced like this. 
Do you realize it ? Do you realize how I long to dance 
you through that door, pick you up bodily and rush 
with you to the end of the world ? Only my unbound- 
ed self-control keeps me in the midst of this staring, 
gaping crowd. You do not speak, child; do I take 
your breath away? I’m afraid so; you feel like a 
trembling, fluttering little bird. Don’t be afraid ; trust 
125 


The Making of Jane 

me, love me — that damned music has stopped ! For- 
give me,” drawing her hand through his arm, “ a man’s 
feelings will get the better of him sometimes, unless, 
like Creswick, he has enriched his blood with skimmed 
milk. Sit down in this window with me a moment; 
no, we may not ; I see ‘ cousin ’ coming, and Creswick 
with her. I’d like to say about them what I said about 
the music. Take the lights in out of your eyes, sweet- 
heart, and shut your pretty lips so that they will not 
tremble. We cannot betray anything yet. And I’ll 
leave you with them ; I cannot talk to Mrs. Saunders 
just now. Ah ! Mrs. Saunders, have you been danc- 
ing? That music is not good, and the room beastly 
hot. I’ve tried to save Miss Ormonde, but I’m afraid 
that she’s exhausted. I really must get a breath of 
fresh air ; will you excuse me ? ” And he bowed him- 
self off. 

“ The best-ventilated ball-room I’ve ever been in,” 
Mrs. Saunders commented. “ You must not have en- 
tertained him, Jane.” 

“ Perhaps not,” Jane answered slowly. Her voice 
sounded faint and far away to her, and she wondered 
if it sounded so to Mrs. Saunders, to Creswick. She 
dreaded Mrs. Saunders’s always suspicious inspection ; 
she dreaded Creswick’s quiet eyes. She had not 
Mark’s facility for coming back to the commonplace 
world, coming back from the tremulous realms into 
which he so easily swept her. Mark should have 
stayed by her longer. 

“ You have lost your color,” Mrs. Saunders went on. 

“ Perhaps Mr. Witting has exhausted Miss Or- 
126 


The Making of Jane 

monde,” Creswick suggested. “ Perhaps the fault of 
non-entertainment lies on his shoulders.” 

“ Perhaps,” Mrs. Saunders granted ; “ if he does not 
choose to exert himself he can be hopelessly dull.” 

The color rushed back to Jane’s face now, and she 
longed to say a few words ; instead, she went oif quick- 
ly with a partner who had come to claim her. 

And she had not asked Mark to let her tell Creswick. 
Indeed, she had not said a word. In the rare moments 
when they were together, Mark’s breathless rush of 
passionate declarations seemed always to tie her 
tongue, to make her heart beat until she seemed deaf 
and blind, but she would ask him — she must ask him ; 
she could not be false to Creswick. When she finished 
this dance she would take her stand by the door 
through which Mark had made his exit. Perhaps he 
would return that way, and fortunately Mrs. Saunders 
was at the farthest end of the room. 

“ Let us stand here a moment,” she suggested to her 
partner. “ It’s a little cooler.” And as she paused she 
saw Mark out in the hall. 

“ You should not stand in a draught,” he said, com- 
ing at once to her side. Her partner made his bow, 
and she turned to Mark. “ I came here to look for 
you,” she said. 

“ Indeed ! and now your partner has left you, I will 
have to take you up to ‘ cousin ’ ; and she will not like 
that.” 

“ But I wanted to ask you something ; and you can 
sit me down by Mrs. Kennet over there.” 

“ And you wanted to ask ? ” 

127 


The Making of Jane 

He was bewildering her in another direction now. 
He was so cold, so almost rough; but this phase did 
not take her breath away. “ I wanted to ask you to 
let me tell Mr. Creswick that ” 

“ What?” 

“ About us.” 

“ Why, in Heaven's name ? ” 

“ Because he would not then have any hope of win- 
ning me.” 

Mark laughed. “ Hope has never hurt anyone yet,” 
he said ; “ and who knows but that he yet may win 
you? Remember the tortoise and the hare. Besides, 
what is there to tell ‘ about us ’ ? ” 

“ That is not fair.” And Jane turned away. “ And 
now please take me to cousin.” 

“ To Mrs. Kennet.” 

“ As you please.” He was cruel — he knew that she 
was helpless, and he seemed to be taking advantage of 
this knowledge. If he loved her truly he could not 
have treated her so. 

“ You are looking very pale,” Mrs. Kennet said. 

“ I’m tired,” Jane answered. 

For some time after this Jane saw Mark only in pub- 
lic. She was proving a social success, and with re- 
serves, Mrs. Saunders was pleased. Much attention 
was paid the girl, and Creswick, always ready to fill 
any vacancy, ever quietly and unostentatiously at hand, 
built up in Jane’s heart, in spite of the ever-present pain 
of deceiving him, a sense of dependence. Mark, on 
the contrary, always took sides with Mrs. Saunders 
and laughed and rallied Jane if she seemed embar- 
128 


The Making of Jane 

rassed, sometimes putting her into a fury of rebellion, 
but at the last limit of her endurance there would come 
a look that won her back, that quieted her like a 
charmed bird. The long years of submission had not 
fitted her to act with decision, to solve questions, and 
now that she had reached a point where there was no 
one to direct her, save Mark, whose directions were 
not in line with her ideas of truth and righteousness, 
she was unhappy. Sometimes she was almost ready 
to break all bounds and tell Mrs. Saunders. Once or 
twice Mrs. Saunders herself almost drove her to it by 
repeating some criticism that Mark had made on her ; 
but something always held her back from this height 
of desperation. The trouble began to tell on her looks, 
however, and Mr. Saunders remarked on it; the girl 
was doing too much. But Mrs. Saunders pronounced 
his opinion far-fetched, and said that Lent would soon 
put an end to everything, and until then nothing could 
be changed. Besides other considerations, it was her 
ambition that Creswick should declare himself during 
this, the girl’s first season; that Jane, her creation, 
should triumph in bearing away a much-sought-after 
parti , but, though his attentions were steady and hope- 
ful, they were most unobtrusive, and his manner was 
so calm, so quiet, that she could not be certain even 
that he cared for the girl ; and she would not for a great 
deal have at this moment touched the course of events. 

But Mark, also, saw the change that was creeping 
over Jane’s looks, and on one of the days at home came 
very early, earlier even than Creswick had come. 

“ Mrs. Saunders is not down,” Simmons said. 

129 


The Making of Jane 

“ How soon will she be down ? ” 

“ Not for an hour, sir.” 

“ Miss Ormonde is down ? I will see her, then ; but 
on no account disturb Mrs. Saunders.” And he 
walked in unannounced. 

Jane started up. “ I’ve come to see you,” Mark said, 
quietly. “ Simmons tells me that Mrs. Saunders will 
not be down for an hour; admirable! I’ll have time 
to give you a carefully prepared lecture. Don’t rattle 
the teacups ; no sane man would take anything at this 
hour. I’ve come to beg forgiveness. I’ve tried you 
too much, and it is telling on your looks. What do 
you want me to do ? ” 

Jane paused a moment. “ I have never deceived 
anyone in my life,” she said. 

“ Of course not ; and I hope that you are not de- 
ceiving anyone now.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do you mean our little friendship ? Impossible. 
I’ve not done anything more than Creswick has done. 
He has told you that he loves you. Have you told Mrs. 
Saunders? Of course not; then why tell her that I 
love you? There is no engagement between us any 
more than between you and Creswick. What would 
you tell her ? ” 

“ The cases seem quite different to me,” Jane an- 
swered, slowly. 

“ Because you have not analyzed them, are not ac- 
customed to analyzing, only to obeying. The only 
difference in the matter is that I love you ten thousand 
times better than Creswick, and that you love me ; and 
130 


The Making of Jane 

if you tell now, we’ll never see each other again. 
Would that make you happy?” 

“ You are not kind.” 

“ Truth is seldom kind; but if it will make you con- 
tented to ruin me, why do it ; I love you well enough 
even for that. I’ve asked Mrs. Saunders once already 
to let me marry you.” 

Jane looked up quickly. 

“ And she laughed. To please you, I will ask her 
again ; but on one condition, that you will not open your 
lips on the subject. I will tell you her answer. I can 
tell it to you now ; she will be angry ; she may banish 
me entirely. Suppose I go away for a time, will that 
relieve your poor little conscience? God knows I see 
little enough of you ; still, if you say so, I will go. But 
don’t you think that my having asked her to let me 
marry you makes things straight? Could I do any 
more ? ” 

“ Why didn’t you tell me sooner? ” 

“ I hoped that you trusted me ; but now do things 
seem all right to you ? ” 

“ Righter.” 

“ Not yet righteous?” 

“ You puzzle me so,” Jane said, slowly. “ You are 
so different. You do everything to disconcert me, then 
laugh at me because I am troubled.” 

“ You simple little child, you are not more than ten 
years old, and I’m a brute. Forgive me, little one, and 
I’ll behave better ; but when a man is as madly in love 
as I am, and has to nail down the hatches, he must find 
some outlet somewhere, and I find it, I’m afraid, in try- 
I3i 


The Making of Jane 

ing to catch the different lights on my cherry. Be- 
sides, you make me so horribly jealous of Creswick. 
You look so quiet and contented while he is prosing 
in your ear, quite as if you had never lost your breath 
listening to me, quite as if you might like his twaddle 
the better of the two. What can I do but torment you ? 
Men have been known to kill the women they loved, 
only because they loved them — I could do that.” 

Jane drew back from his look; then rising quickly, 
walked away into the second room. Mark sat quite 
still for a moment, looking about him. The doors in 
the second room were all closed, and he followed Jane 
to where she stood smoothing the leaves of a palm. 

“ Are you, after all, a little flirt,” he said, standing 
close behind her, “ that you walk away and leave me ? 
Come into this room where all the doors are shut 
against the ears of the discreet Simmons.” 

Jane looked around as if for flight. 

“Child, why are you afraid of me? You torment 
a man’s soul almost out of his body with your timid, 
retreating ways. Some day you will test me too far, 
and I’ll do something desperate, and do it in public. 
Now I’m going to put one arm around you very gently 
— so — don’t cry J— -and kiss you once — just once! 
There, go ; positively you unhinge me, you tremble so. 
Come, come ; I’ll make you a cup of tea — I’ll show you 
pictures — I’ll send Simmons for one of your dolls — I’ll 
do anything under Heaven to restore you. Sit on this 
sofa and I’ll sit opposite you and talk about the weather. 
I’m not laughing at you, I’m not teasing you, I swear 
it; I’m miserable for having terrified you; but who 
132 


The Making of Jane 

would expect a girl of to-day to go to pieces over one 
little kiss from the man she expects to marry? You 
are like a wild creature ; how long will it take to tame 
you? Have you ever taken a fluttering, frightened 
bird into your hand, have felt how its heart throbbed 
almost to bursting its little breast, and gradually quiet- 
ed it, soothed it, stroked it with one finger because it 
was so small, until at last it settled down, moved its lit- 
tle feet once or twice deep in the hollow of your palm, 
and finally nestled close, close to your hand on every 
side, peaceful and trusting ?” 

Jane drew a long, sobbing breath. “ If I belonged 
to you,” she said, “ and everybody knew it, I don’t think 
I’d be afraid.” 

“ If ‘ cousin ’ knew? If ‘ cousin ’ should say, * You 

belong to Mark ’ ” 

“ Cousin would say Mr. Witting ” 

Mark laughed. “ I beg pardon ; perhaps she would 
— if she should say * You belong to Mr. Witting, Jane ; 
go and sit beside him, hold his hand, brush his shoes,’ 
you’d do it quite joyfully? Now I’ve made you angry 
once more. I’ll confess that I was trying to do it, child, 
in order to restore you ; forgive me sufficiently to listen, 
and please, little one, to heed. I am playing a game, 
and I am playing for a high stake — yourself. I did 
not mean to play a game, I drifted into it ; but now it 
has become so deep that I begin to be afraid of it. A 
more direct game, or no game at all, would have been 
better ; but I’m afraid that I am a born gambler, and 
this is a most original plan. Be that as it will, I am in 
it and must now play it to a finish ; but if you betray 
133 


The Making of Jane 

anything to anyone, you ruin me — you separate your- 
self from me. This finale may come through other 
means, but it is sure to come if you do not stand by me. 
Creswick loves you and is trying to win you ; I love 
you and am trying to win you ; and the only difference 
is that I have asked Mrs. Saunders to let me marry 
you, and Creswick has not; and yet you seem to feel 
no pain in your fair conscience about Creswick — 
why ? ” 

“ Because,” Jane answered slowly, as if weighing 
her words, “ because his loving me is his secret ; but 
my loving you is my secret.” 

“ Good ! You have lots of sense, even if you are 
afraid of me ; but do you tell ‘ cousin * everything ? ” 

“ I never tell cousin anything ; but then I never hide 
anything, not since I was a little child and afraid, and 
she is free to know all that I do ; but this is different ; 
I am hiding this.” 

Mark sighed impatiently. “ Do as you please, 
then ; tell it all and let me go — say — ‘ Good-by, Mark. 
I have never told cousin anything in my life, but I must 
tell her this even if it ruins you and separates us for 
ever; good-by. I am very conscientious and loyal, 
and though cousin is neither, I must, because of these 
virtues, sacrifice everything to her/ And 4 cousin ’ 
will call you an idiot, and laugh you to scorn. My 
child, let it go on for a few months, until the summer, 
and I will leave town indefinitely, and give you a rest ; 
myself also ; will this do ? I won’t even try to see you 
again before I go ; I will say good-by now.” 

“ And cousin ? ” 


134 


The Making of Jane 

“ Cousin ? O yes, I forgot.” And there was a 
laugh in Mark’s eyes. “ I’ll call on her especially, 
some morning when you are out of the way, and make 
my farewell. And I’ll not send you a line all the while 
I’m gone ; you cannot ask any more than that. Good- 
by, Miss Ormonde. I hope that you will enjoy the 
rest of the season. Good-by.” And raising her hand 
to his lips, he laughed, bowed, and was gone. 

The next morning he and Mrs. Saunders were in the 
second drawing-room. The doors were shut, as on the 
afternoon before, and she sat near the palm where Jane 
had stood, and Mark stood in front of her. 

“ This is rather sudden, is it not? ” 

“ Everything I do is done suddenly. If you would 
let me be your cousin by marriage, things would be 
much simpler ; and I thought you knew human nature 
too well ever to be jealous of a man’s wife.” 

“ You seem so eager about it.” 

“ And why not ? I must go now, however, if I mean 
to catch my train. Good-by.” 

“ You will write to me, Mark ? I see the letters first, 
you know.” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ And when will you come back ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ And you will be at the Springs this summer ? ” 

“ I don’t know. Good-by.” 

“ You will tell me nothing? ” 

“ Yes, one thing ; it is fatal to try to deceive your ser- 
vants. For some time Simmons has refused my finan- 
cial favors ; Joseph, his alternate at the door, is more 
modern, more civilized.” 


135 


The Making of Jane 

“ You’ve changed tremendously of late, Mark.” 

“ I’m becoming very sick of myself; hope you won’t 
suffer in the same way; it’s as bad as sea-sickness. 
Good-by.” He did not even shake hands, but walked 
out of the room and out of the house as quickly as pos- 
sible. 

Mrs. Saunders had risen, and stood quite still for a 
moment. She was very pale, and her hands were trem- 
bling. She had been foolish, as foolish as a girl, and 
now he was tired, he had changed. Of late he had 
been coming very seldom. Would it be wiser to let 
him marry the girl, make settlements on her and estab- 
lish them at the other end of the town? Would it be 
wiser ? Then when his aunt died. She began to walk 
up and down hurriedly. When his aunt died he would 
have the world at his feet, to go where he pleased ; Jane 
would be richer than she ! If Jane married Creswick 
she would be that; but that was quite different. To 
marry Creswick was to make a brilliant match; was 
to prove Mrs. Saunders a success; was to give Mrs. 
Saunders double prestige in society ; was to get herself 
out of Mrs. Saunders’s way. What an odd thing it 
was that she had realized so late that the girl would be 
in the way ; that she had to wait for Mark Witting to 
reveal to her how greatly the girl chaperoned her ; that 
she was still too charming a woman to need the mag- 
net of youth at her side ; that he — no, he had never told 
her that, had made no professions, save as to her at- 
tractions as a hostess, her looks, her manner. His 
words had seemed to mean more at the time; it had 
seemed that more, far more was on the verge of being 

136 


The Making of Jane 

said ; but now, in the light of his increasing sarcasm, 
his almost rudeness, now, when after this sudden 
shock of his going, she paused to count it all up, what 
he had said amounted to very little, to nothing at all. 
She was puzzled, she was troubled, she was afraid. It 
meant so much to her; did it mean anything to him? 

Would it be wiser to let him marry the girl? Could 
he possibly care for the girl? He had never given a 
sign of it. Did the girl care for him? She had seen 
no signs of that, either ; she would watch her now, and 
see if his going had any effect on her. And this very 
going, was it not to protect herself? Simmons had 
been impertinent, but to dismiss him would be fatal; 
so Mark had gone away to protect her from talk ; sure- 
ly that showed some devotion. Suppose Mr. Saunders 
should — she turned white down to the lips. In that 
case, she would be afraid of him. And yet she had 
done nothing, nothing, nothing! 

She was glad Mark had gone. He was wise ; per- 
haps it would be best to let him marry the girl. If she 
did all that he asked her to do, he would not speak 
sharply to her ; perhaps he would return to his earlier 
kindness, to his looks that meant so much, to the care- 
less talk, when almost every word was double-shotted. 
She drew a long breath ; she had lived then ; she had 
lived for a little time after their coming to town, then 
slowly, almost imperceptibly, things had changed. 
Was he tired? She could not tell now; she would 
wait and see if he wrote to her, would watch Jane. 
When he came back she would show no wish to see 
him; not for a moment suggest that he resume his 
137 


The Making of Jane 

visits. Meanwhile, suppose Creswick should win 
Jane? 

Would it not be wiser to write to Mark to come back 
at once and marry the girl ? She would have a perma- 
nent claim on him then. Up and down, up and down 
she walked until the clock chimed one. Jane would 
soon come in; her husband; she must go up-stairs. 


X 


How the world is made for each of us ! 

How all we perceive and know in it 
Tends to some moment’s product thus, 
When a soul declares itself — to wit, 
By its fruit, the thing it does ! ” 



HE season was over. Lent, with its modified 


JL gayeties, its many services, had gone, and Mrs. 
Saunders, having been the head of a sewing-class, hav- 
ing done her share of afternoon services, having put 
on black and spent most of Good Friday on her knees 
in church, had at Easter sent flowers in every direc- 
tion, and was now ready to run over to Paris for a 
few weeks' recreation before she opened the cottage 
at Hillside Springs. 

Mark Witting had not come back, had not written 
one line, had gone out of their lives as completely as 
if he had never existed. Jane, trained through all her 
days to passivity, to the absence of knowledge as to 
the next move, brought this training to bear on the 
question of Mark’s behavior, and accepted it in silence. 
She never spoke of him, she asked no questions con- 
cerning him, and when his name was mentioned it 
seemed to mean no more to her than any other name. 
In vain Mrs. Saunders watched her, and as in vain 
Mrs. Saunders wondered about Mark Witting. His 


139 


The Making of Jane 

death, or marriage, or return to town she would have 
heard, but this absolute silence was unaccountable. 

She had been restless, and had thrown herself into 
everything with redoubled vigor. When Lent had 
come she had done everything that a woman in her 
position should do in Lent, becoming quite exalte by 
the end, quite risen to sublime heights, and had de- 
clared for Paris, saying that an irresistible longing for 
a great cathedral had overcome her. She spent most 
of the first week in Notre Dame, then making it quite 
plain that the necessities of Jane’s summer outfit de- 
manded her attention, she returned to her usual haunts 
of milliners and tailors. 

The week before they were to leave Paris they were 
out driving and met Mark Witting. He also was driv- 
ing, and with a woman. They were the width of the 
drive apart, and he seemed to have no eyes but for 
his companion. Mrs. Saunders started with a slight 
exclamation, and Jane looking in her turn, the light 
came slowly into her eyes. 

“ How strange that he did not see us,” Mrs. Saun- 
ders said. “ Henry must look him up, he will relieve 
the monotony.” 

But Mr. Saunders had no trouble, for the next day 
Mark called. He asked for Mrs. Saunders, and Jane 
was not sent for. 

Mrs. Saunders held out both hands. “ How did you 
know that I was here? ” she asked. 

“ Saw you driving,” and Mark dropped her hands. 
“ Couldn’t bow, you know; when a man’s driven away 
from all he knows he must take up what he can find.” 
140 


The Making of Jane 

“ Mark!” 

“ You are not shocked, don’t try to look it. How 
is Miss Ormonde?” 

“ Jane is always quite well. When do you return to 
America? ” 

“ If you’ll let me be your cousin by marriage I’ll 
return with you.” 

“ I’ve been thinking about it — thinking about it on 
my knees, Mark; all during Lent it was my prayer 
that I should be directed.” 

“ And have you had a cable what to do? ” 

“ Mark!” 

“ It is not half as bad as your praying over a case 
such as you think this is. I’m bad, but I don’t deceive 
myself about it; you ” 

“ I am a poor starved heart — don’t you see it? — 
yoked forever with dull, unanswering clay ” 

“ I’d break the yoke or bury the clay, one; but you 
love your world and you love yourself — don’t inter- 
rupt me, I determined some time ago that if I ever saw 
you again I’d give you a plain talk.” 

“Ever saw me again, Mark?” 

“ I had almost made up my mind not to when I 
saw you driving, then you looked so very handsome 
— all those prayers have helped you — and my little 
bride looked so fair and tender ” 

“ You love the girl? ” 

Mark laughed. “ To use some vulgar slang,” he 
said, “ I can ‘ get a rise out of you ’ whenever I like. 
May I come and dine with you to-night? Thanks. 
Now I must go on with my lecture quickly, for I have 

141 


The Making of Jane 

an engagement. And the first thing that I must insist 
on is that to me you do not pose as a good woman. 
You are not, you know; that is what attracted me, 
the — I am going to say something you’ll pretend is 
dreadful — the cold-blooded devil I saw in your eyes. 
Take you out of your environment, and there is noth- 
ing you could not do, and would not do. Many 
women are like this, and they are always the most self- 
righteous. They bore me to death, however, when 
they pose as good women. There, that is a hard say- 
ing, but I had to say it. Try to get over it before 
dinner, and think of that marriage, and I will think of 
going home With you. You are sick all the way, 
though, and of course I could not come to see you. 
I’ll send my messages by the little bride. By-by.” 

Mrs. Saunders sat quite still when he left her, with 
a strange, new expression coming on her face, a 
strange, new light gathering in her eyes. She looked 
as one who saw unexpected things, as one who had 
found freedom, had broken from a chrysalis. She smote 
her hands together softly. She rose quickly and shook 
herself as if she were throwing off trammels. The 
man had revealed her own soul to her. Marry the 
girl, of course he should, and there should be settle- 
ments and a house that would make him absolutely 
comfortable, and he should owe it all to her! But she 
would not tell him yet — not yet. She could hold him 
a little longer in uncertainty. He had called her bad. 
She paused a moment, then began a rapid walk, a 
swaying, creeping walk, like an animal in a cage, round 
and round the room. He had called her bad. She 


142 


The Making of Jane 

stopped suddenly and looked up, raised her hands as 
if calling high heaven to witness. “ He has set me 
free,” she said, in a low voice; “ this is the truest mo- 
ment of my life — I am bad ! ” One moment, then her 
arms dropped at her sides, and she breathed heavily. 
“I am crazy,” she whispered, “crazy! I must be 
careful,” and she rang the bell sharply. 

“ A glass of wine,” she said to the servant, “ and a 
biscuit, in my room.” 

The voyage home was one long dream to Jane. One 
year ago she had gone over the same course with 
Mark a stranger, now Mr. Saunders played his cards 
incessantly, for Mark was always there to take Jane 
off his hands, and Mrs. Saunders, down-stairs, was 
handed a little note every day by the stewardess. 

“ I’ve asked her again to let me marry you,” Mark 
said to Jane, “ and she promised to think about it.” 

“ Did she? ” and Jane looked up at him with won- 
der in her eyes. 

“ She did, so you need have no further torments on 
the subject; but if you look at me like that, little one, 
IT1 pick you up and jump overboard with you. You 
have the faculty of running me crazy as no other 
woman has ever had it. I don’t understand it.” 

“ Mr. Creswick says that I have charm.” 

“ Damn Creswick! — I beg pardon, but how dare he 
talk to you like that? ” 

“ Just as you dare to talk to me.” 

“So, so, how spirited it is! ” 

“That is why I begged you to let me tell Mr. 
Creswick.” 


143 


The Making of Jane 

“ No, you must not tell Creswick — not yet. I want 
to tell him myself; I want the pleasure of giving him 
that bit of news. He has everything in the world that 
I want and have not, and all the mothers have been 
running after him. He has always treated me with a 
politeness so distant that almost I needed a field-glass 
to see it and him at the end of it. I want, with the 
same long-distance courtesy, to tell him that I am 
going to marry you; that I am going to take from 
him the one pearl of great price for the possession of 
which he would give all his fortune. To marry you 
will be joy and happiness unspeakable, and, after this, 
a great triumph over Creswick, and, further still, an 
endless joke on * cousin.’ If there is one thing that she 
has set her heart on it is your marrying Creswick — 
your making a brilliant match. I am not a brilliant 
match; I am not rich — I may be some day, but it is 
doubtful, and she knows it. But Creswick is all that 
her heart desires.” 

“ I could not marry him,” and Jane shook her head; 
“ I do not love him.” 

Mark laughed. “You would do just that but for 
my interference. You could no more thwart Mrs. 
Saunders than you could fly to the moon, and angel 
though you be, darling, your wings have not sprouted 
yet.” 

“ I could not do it,” Jane repeated. 

“ You would walk to the altar just as any other 
lamb, and the position would have its compensations. 
Creswick would adore you, would keep Mrs. Saunders 
in her place, for he does not at all admire her, and 

144 


The Making of Jane 

you’d have the distinct delight of seeing her treat you 
with deference, you could even reduce her to cring- 
ing ” 

“ I beg that you will hush,” Jane interrupted, sharp- 
ly; “I cannot bear to hear it, not only because you are 
speaking of cousin in a way that I must not permit, 
but also because it is not worthy of you — it is not 
noble.” 

“ Noble,” Mark repeated, slowly, “ no, I am not 
noble. Noble means to rise above injury and injus- 
tice — the knight who raises his fallen enemy; the man 
who fires into the air; the man who keeps a promise 
to his own hurt — no, I am not noble. I wait until I 
can with profit to myself hit my enemy, and then I 
hit him very hard. This was the primitive way, this 
is the modern way, this is the successful way, this is 
the world’s way. I am a true child of this world, little 
one, and this world is not noble.” 

“ I don’t believe you.” 

“ Thank you ; people seldom believe you when you 
tell the truth. It is the truth; at the same time I’ll 
promise to live up to your ideals whenever it is pos- 
sible — whenever I won’t lose money by it,” and he 
laughed as he bent forward to look into her eyes. 

Jane would have been satisfied if that voyage could 
have continued indefinitely. From morning until 
night Mark was beside her; the weather was perfect, 
the whole ship’s company were, and continued to be, 
strangers. The last day, when Mrs. Saunders reap- 
peared, came all too soon, and the absolute change 
that came always into Mark’s manner whenever she 
145 


The Making of Jane 

was present. It was distressing to the girl, as much 
because it looked like deception as anything else; but 
he had prepared her for it. “We must not let ‘ cou- 
sin ’ think that we have arranged anything,” he said, 
“ for she does not like anyone to have a finger in her 
pies; she likes to make them, and bake them, and 
sugar them all herself, else she will throw them away. 
This is one of her peculiarities to which we must bow. 
She must not think that we have done anything 
through all this long and lovely voyage but talk about 
the weather and regret her absence. She must feel 
that she is the sun of my universe, whose rising and 
setting I watch with ardor; that she is the arbiter of 
my fate, who is to ladle out to me my future pleasure. 
And don’t say that we shall be deceiving her; we will 
not; if she is so unknowing as to believe all these 
things that is her look out; besides, it is not the thing 
for lovers to seem to care for each other in public; 
she and Mr. Saunders never spoon where anyone can 
see them,” and Mark laughed; “ added to which,” he 
went on, “ it will give her great pleasure to play fairy 
godmother. Have you not discovered that ‘ cousin ’ 
wants all the taffy going, that she always wants an 
audience? She works harder for taffy than most peo- 
ple do for bread — her vanity is colossal. If you had 
not been above it, you could have flattered her out of 
anything she had, and into anything you wanted; but 
then I should not have loved you. We always love 
our opposites.” 

So he had talked, and when Mrs. Saunders came on 
deck Mr. Saunders resumed his place at Jane’s side, 

146 


The Making of Jane 

a fact that absolutely hurt the girl. He should never 
have gone to play cards, or he should have continued 
to play cards. As it was she must seem to connive, 
she must walk as of old with Mr. Saunders, and she 
began to realize that tacitly she and Mr. Saunders had 
been for years deceiving Mrs. Saunders. Her feeling 
was almost that Mrs. Saunders needed protection; her 
impulse was to go and tell her everything, warn her 
against everyone. Mark was lifting the curtain of the 
life about her, and she did not like what she saw, she 
was struggling not to believe what she saw. She hated 
that her Cousin Henry was proving all that Mark in- 
sinuated about people; she hated that Mark should 
make such insinuations. It was only for a few hours, 
however, that she had to bear it, then Mark said good- 
by to them on the docks, promising to meet them at 
the Springs. 

For the first time in her life Jane experienced a sen- 
sation of home-coming. The house in New York had 
never seemed like home to her — too many memories 
of her early misery dwelt there; but the house at Hill- 
side Springs seemed to welcome her, seemed to re- 
mind her that she had been happy there. What a 
strange sensation to want to jump out of the carriage 
and run up the path to the steps; how new that she 
should want to rush from place to place and see if 
everything was as it had been ; how hard that she had 
to go up-stairs and dress for dinner. But to be so 
happy that she had to control it was so remarkable 
that she was almost content to sit still and realize it. 
And the next morning how beautiful the country sun- 
147 


The Making of Jane 

shine was, how early she was up and out, how glad 
the dogs were to rush after her, Geist, who seemed dis- 
tinctly to remember the bench in the thick of the pro- 
tecting shrubbery. At breakfast, where Mrs. Saun- 
ders never appeared, Mr. Saunders looked at her in 
some surprise. “ How bright you look,” he said, “ as 
bright as when I used to give you candy-money.” 

Jane looked up at him slowly, and a shadow from 
her lonely childhood seemed to come over the day. 
“ Candy-money,” she repeated. 

“ I used to wonder if you loved money,” Mr. Saun- 
ders went on. 

“I have that money now,” Jane answered; “but I 
don’t love money. I had found out that father and 
mother were poor, and at that age poor meant starv- 
ing, and I was saving it, hoping to get enough to go 
home and help them.” 

“And you did not tell me? I knew that something 
was wrong; your eyes used to trouble me. If you 
had told me, I would have explained. Poor little 
child!” 

Jane drew a sharp breath. “ It’s over and gone,” she 
said, quickly, “ and I am happy now.” Of course she 
was happy, and nothing should mar it. All the cot- 
tagers were back, Simmons had reported, and the 
hotels were filling rapidly; Mr. Creswick had come, 
and Mr. Witting. Of course it would all be as it had 
been, she would pick up the threads of the old life 
just where she had laid them down, and weave them 
into a happier, more perfect whole. There were flow- 
ers for her from Creswick, and for Mrs. Saunders from 
148 


The Making of Jane 

Mark Witting. She looked at his card a moment; a 
part of his mysterious plan, she supposed. All should 
be as it had been, and she went out to the bench. 
Presently Mark would jump the side fence and come 
up through the shrubbery. 

The snap of the front gate and Geist’s bark came 
simultaneously, and going to the opening in the shrub- 
bery she saw Laurence Creswick coming across the 
grass. Her heart sank a little, but he found no fault 
with her greeting. “ I very nearly came to break- 
fast, ” he said, laughing, and sat down on the bench 
as of old. “ Are you glad to come back? ” 

“ I have never been so glad to be anywhere before,” 
Jane answered. 

“ Good; and you are looking so well. Did you en- 
joy Paris? ,, 

“ Paris means only clothes, you know.” 

“ And you had a pleasant voyage? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And I need not try to tell you how I have missed 
you, and how glad I am to see you? ” 

Jane shook her head, smiling a little. “ I wonder 
you are not tired of saying such things to me.” 

“ I wonder you are not tired of trying to discourage 
me. It’s no use, you know. It’s going on until you 
marry someone else; after that I shall be your friend 
just the same as ever, until some day you will need 
me.” 

“ I don’t deserve it, you know.” 

“ I have had rather a lonely life,” he went on, as 
though she had not spoken ; “ I was an only child, 
149 


The Making of Jane 

and very soon an orphan. My grandmother was good 
to me, but most of my life has been spent at schools and 
colleges. All this means that I have lived much with- 
in myself, and living within myself I have formed 
ideals. Perhaps you may call me romantic, you may 
even reduce me to the level of sentimentalism, but I’ve 
known always that I could not love but once. Do 
you remember the description of how Milton rever- 
enced the poet within himself, how his whole life was 
kept pure with this end in view? That is what I’ve 
always felt about the love I had to offer the woman 
I should marry.” 

“ Then you would want to be a woman’s first and 
only love.” 

“Yes; but I have faith that my love, kept so single, 
would not fasten itself to a heart that was not true, 
even though it might fasten itself to a heart that had 
not just my ideals. In these matters girls are rather 
helpless, you know; I’ve watched a great many of 
them, and I’m sorry for them. The best chance, I 
think, is for a girl to love her mother and to have faith 
in her father.” 

“ And I have not known my father and mother ” 

“Hullo! Oh!” and Mark Witting stood before 
them. “ How are you, Miss Ormonde — and Creswick. 
Is Mrs. Saunders visible yet? May I go to the house 
and inquire? Thanks. Good-by.” 

“Mrs. Saunders likes him very much?” Creswick 
queried when Mark had gone. 

“ I believe so.” 

“ He’s an odd mixture. He’s a great deal at my 
150 


The Making of Jane 

grandmother’s house because of his aunt, who comes 
there every summer, so of course I see something of 
him; but I’ve never known him very well.” 

“ You are very different.” 

“ Very,” Creswick answered, promptly, then the talk 
languished, and he rose. 

“ Have you made any plans for the day? ” he asked. 

Jane shook her head. “ Cousin does that, you 
know.” 

“Yes? I’ll come in again then.” 

“ And I have not thanked you for the beautiful flow- 
ers I found,” and the color surged up in Jane’s face. 
She felt guilty because she was not grateful, because 
she was glad that he was going. 

“ They greeted you for me, that was all they were 
meant to do. Good-by.” 

She put the backs of her hands to her cheeks; they 
burned like fire, they burned still more hotly when she 
heard the gate shut; a little while went by, then Mark 
stood in the opening, laughing at her. 

“ Run him away, have I ; glad I’m such a scare- 
crow. Tip-toed into the house, fearing to disturb 
‘ cousin,’ sat withdrawn in the parlor until I saw King 
Midas go away. 4 All things come to him who waits.’ 
You’ll kiss me, won’t you, because you are glad to 
see me? How sweet you look; ‘cousin’ dresses you 
like a dream — true; and you are not going to be un- 
easy and unhappy this summer, because, you know, 
I’ve asked for you, and ‘ cousin ’ is thinking about ac- 
cepting me as a cousin by marriage. Soon it will be 
all settled, and I’ll be giving Creswick that one be- 
tween the eyes.” 


The Making of Jane 

“ If you love me, you will not hurt Mr. Creswick.” 

“So? We’ll have to think about that; but I’m 
afraid I will have to give him one for presuming to 
love you. Thank you, Geist, for that little bark. 
Wonder who’s coming now — so, the discreet Joseph.” 

“ Mrs. Saunders wishes to speak to you, Miss Jane.” 

Jane rose quickly, every trace of color leaving her 
face. “ Very well, Joseph,” and the man turned away. 
“ You will excuse me? ” she said to Mark. 

“ I’ll come with you.” Jane hesitated. “ On my 
own responsibility,” and Mark laughed. “ I’m not 
afraid of 4 cousin,’ ” he said, “ nor need you be in such 
a mix. A bold front always scares a bully. Come 
on. How do you do, Mrs. Saunders. I’ve been wait- 
ing for you, for — ” and he shook hands with her al- 
most too heartily — “ for hours. How late you are ; 
and I’ve made myself so disagreeable that I’ve run 
Creswick away, quite away, and have terrified Miss 
Ormonde. Don’t you ever come down until eleven? 
Will know better next time; but what I came for was 
to ask for the day’s plans, the week’s plans, and if I 
might be one of them.” 

“ Of course. But, Jane, I sent for you about those 
alterations that Colby must make in your blue crepe; 
she’s waiting now. Mr. Witting will excuse you.” 

“ What a lamb she is,” Mark commented when Jane 
was gone, “ and how deadly afraid she is of you.” 

Mrs. Saunders’s eyes flashed. “ I found her to be 
both obstinate and secretive when she was a child,” 
she answered, “ and I have had to watch her ever 
since; she would never have told me that you had been 

152 


The Making of Jane 

in the arbor, and you seem to have found a new way 
over the side fence?” 

“ Short cut; I could not get here quickly enough; 
as it is I found the bride talking to another man. Did 
you watch long enough to see that I came directly on 
to the house? ” 

“ And did not ring. What did you do? ” 

“Sat in the parlor and waited; did not have the 
courage to stir up Simmons. Do you know that I’m 
becoming very tired of this sort of thing, and am con- 
templating another disappearance?” 

Mrs. Saunders moved uneasily. “ A long engage- 
ment would be trying,” she said; “ we must announce 
it in September — if I agree to it.” 

Mark laughed. 

“ And you can be married early in October, and 
we’ll join you in Paris and come home together in 
December.” 

“ If you agree to it,” Mark said; “ you must decide 
that in twenty-four hours.” 

“ If you will accept my terms I will decide it now.” 

“ Your terms? ” 

“ That you do not address Jane until September, 
and that you will do as I have said about the marriage 
in October and the tour and return in December.” 

“And let Creswick have his innings all summer?” 

“ Do you care enough for the girl to be jealous?” 

“ I hate Creswick.” 

“ The longer Creswick’s innings, the more severe 
his defeat.” 

“There is something in that. Very well, I agree; 
153 


The Making of Jane 

but I am not going to repeat last winter. You may 
not think it, but I have a little self-respect; besides, 
not to be pleased with myself bores me; added to that, 
I am not pleased with you this morning for interfering, 
so I’m going. Good-by. It is unwise to let a man 
know when you are trying to manage him; and things 
that happen are more interesting than things that are 
arranged. Good-by.” 

It was a strange summer to Jane, and many things 
that were done seemed to have no motive to cause 
them, no meaning to give them weight. Mark did not 
come so often in the morning as he had done the sum- 
mer before; his temper was most uneven, and some- 
times he was almost rude to Mrs. Saunders, and as 
strange was it that Mrs. Saunders made no sign of 
seeing it. The season was as gay, the weather was as 
fine, the people were as pleasant, but somehow her 
dream of happiness for this summer was clouded, and 
in a measure it seemed to be Mark’s fault. Mrs. Saun- 
ders, too, was different, an indefinable difference. She 
was pleasanter to everyone than to Jane, to her she 
was more openly sarcastic, more exacting than ever 
before ; sometimes she seemed to be almost vindictive, 
and Jane, refusing to condemn either of these two, 
was a little bit bewildered. It was disappointing, it 
was wearing; but comparative peace came in August 
when Mark took himself off to Newport to keep an 
engagement, and when, a little later, Mrs. Saunders 
went to town to look after something she wished to 
have done in the house — she must see to it herself, 
she said. 


154 


The Making of Jane 

It was very peaceful then, and Jane took herself to 
task that she found it so. It was not long, however — 
only three days — before Mrs. Saunders came back, but 
Creswick declared to himself that even in that little 
time Jane had gained both in flesh and color. Mrs. 
Saunders, too, came back in a happier mood, and the 
calm continued. The days and the weeks rolled on, 
and August was drawing to a close, when, without 
warning, a mysterious, unaccountable break came. 

Mark Witting had returned, appearing suddenly, 
standing laughing before Jane as she sat in the arbor. 
Light flashed into her eyes, color into her cheeks, and 
she rose quickly. 

“ So glad ? ” he said, and put his hands on her two 
shoulders. “ Have you missed me, little one, little 
violet? I have walked in many rose-gardens, darling, 
and have gathered more flowers than ever I wanted, 
but never has any flower so held me, so charmed me, 
so made me long to be better, so made me loathe my- 
self, as my little violet, and for none, child, would I 
have done what I have done to win you.” His voice 
was strangely grave for him, and Jane looked up anx- 
iously. “ And I’m so glad to be here again,” he went 
on, “ that I’m a little bit afraid of myself. Three days 
of my absence I was in town, haggling with importu- 
nate creditors — nasty! But I am poor, you know, 
and poor men are always in debt. 4 1 cannot dig, to 
beg I am ashamed/ so I’ve been compromising — vile! 
Don’t look at me so, I’ll go perfectly mad-crazy.” 

His hands were still on her shoulders, and she had 
moved so that her back was to the opening, and as 
155 


The Making of Jane 

the clear, unshaded light fell on his face, Jane started. 
“You look ill,” she said; “what is the matter? You 
are worn, you are haggard/’ 

“ Never better in my life,” Mark answered. “ It’s 
just the devil that’s in me has been drawing lines on 
my face. I’m bad, you know, very bad; and I’ve been 
hating myself so desperately lately that I am losing 
my looks. And those creditors, remember, and accept- 
ing help where I despised it, putting myself in bonds, 
as it were, paying for my past pleasures, that in the 
light of your eyes, little one, make a sorry show. No, 
I am well, and once let our affairs be settled and I 
will be a better man — I will, indeed.” 

“ You are not so very bad — no — for you are good 
to your aunt.” 

Mark laughed. “ Don’t let us go into my virtues, 
dear, they won’t bear a microscope. I’m not worthy 
of you, never will be; but if love can cleanse, some 
day I will be clean, and, please God, it won’t be long. 
My plans are moving swiftly to their close, and then 
— I’m so glad, I’m afraid, I’m just a little bit dizzy 
with the thought of it. I love you, O child, never be- 
lieve but that I love you — never! I’m afraid to touch 
you now any more than this, afraid to greet you any 
more than to look into your eyes; but soon, very 
soon, you don’t know how soon, darling, we’ll be away 
— away ” 

Something made him look up. He drew Jane close, 
hiding her face in his breast; he laughed, not a pleas- 
ant laugh, then the vision he saw, two flaming eyes 
set in a livid, drawn face, disappeared. He was trem- 
bling all over now, and Jane drew away from him. 

156 


The Making of Jane 

“ You are ill! ” she said; “ sit down.” He obeyed, 
and the girl starting away, he caught her hand. 

“ Don’t go,” he said, brokenly, “ it will be over in a 
minute; just a little turn — don’t go, don’t speak.” 
His head drooped on his breast, and Jane, silent and 
terrified, watched him with such a pain at her heart 
as she had never dreamed of before. Presently she had 
to sit down, and for a long time, an endless time it 
seemed to her, they stayed there in absolute silence. 
At last Mark drew a long sigh, a sigh so deep that it 
seemed as if his life must go out with it. His hold 
on the girl’s wrist relaxed, let go, and his own hand 
was thrust into his breast. Slowly he straightened 
himself, but with his face turned away. 

“ It’s all right now,” he said at last, still looking 
away from Jane; then he drew out his watch. “Time’s 
up,” and he rose. He was looking at her now, differ- 
ently from what he had ever done. “ Do you think 
that I could see Mrs. Saunders?” he asked, “just to 
greet her — ’twould be civil, you know.” 

“Are you well enough?” 

“Quite; only a little turn. At this moment I feel 
as if I could charge a battery, could fight a whole regi- 
ment all by myself. So I’ll face ‘ cousin’; her gig- 
lamp eyes are worse than a battery. I hate dark eyes. 
Will you show me the way? ” 

Into the house, where Jane stayed with Mark until 
Simmons came to say that Mrs. Saunders would be 
down in a moment, then Jane turned away. “ I’ll go,” 
she said, “it will save cousin the trouble of sending 


157 


The Making of Jane 

“ Yes, her account in that kind of lie must be heavy.” 

“Hush!” then Jane was gone, meeting Mrs. Saun- 
ders in the hall. 

“ Why do you go? ” she asked, and the look in her 
eyes made Jane wonder. 

“ Mr. Witting came to see you,” she answered. 
“Shall I come back?” 

“ Why, do you suppose that I need you — ever need 
you?” then she swept on, and Jane, going slowly up 
to her room, felt a tardy rebellion rising within her — 
scorn such as this she could not stand. 

Very softly, but very closely Mrs. Saunders shut the 
drawing-room door behind her, then stood still before 
Mark. 

“ Good-morning,” he said, smiling; “ I must apolo- 
gize for not speaking to you when you so gratuitously 
peeped into the arbor, but it would not have been to 
your credit, you know.” 

“ I am surprised at your audacity in speaking to me 
at all,” she answered. 

“ I can scarcely believe that ; but please sit down, 
it is so much more restful to converse sitting down, 
and, if I mistake not, we have a few things to settle.” 

Her eyes were flashing, her close-shut lips were 
white, she breathed heavily. 

“ You will want to ask me some questions,” Mark 
went on. “Do I love the girl? heretofore I’ve an- 
swered, ‘ What a question to ask?’ meaning that your 
own eyes should have told you that no man in his 
senses could help loving such a charming flower; now 
I answer truly, Yes, I love the girl, and of course that 
158 


The Making of Jane 

precludes all thought of your allowing the marriage. 
I have loved her from the very first. We were to- 
gether through two sea-voyages. I shall never forget 
them, forget the sunshine and the wind, the wide seas 
and wandering waves, and the little curls that blew 
across her forehead, got into her pretty eyes. Last 
summer I was with her every morning while you were 
with your physician. I am awfully sorry for the 
physicians of fashionable women. Every morning I 
came. Simmons knew, that is why he was impertinent 
last winter; he was quite in the right. Last winter? 
Last winter was so long, was trying, but we had some 
dances — ye gods! How close she was to me, how her 
heart beat, how shy she was of any touch, any tone, 
any look that in any degree expressed my feelings. 
And I went away that spring for her sake; she was 
tormented because you did not know; she wanted to 
tell you. You are amazed? All this going on under 
your very eyes, within reach of your hand? Control 
yourself, and I will explain. I advise you to control 
yourself. A scene will be perfectly useless, and most 
undignified, and Simmons might hear; Joseph may be 
at a key-hole.” His voice, that for a moment had been 
full of vibrations, had become laughing, and his eyes 
seemed to sparkle with amusement. 

“ To make my explanation clear I must go back be- 
hind all these beautiful memories that will never die, 
and for which I thank you; you like people to be 
grateful, don’t you? To go back: Mrs. Kennet told 
my aunt, everybody told my aunt, that the girl was 
your adopted daughter, your heiress, and my aunt 
159 


The Making of Jane 

being canny at once directed her steps to see you, and 
brought me. She prepared me by telling me that she 
remembered the girl as a child, and that you did not 
let her call her soul her own; that she was a passive 
instrument in your hands, and that such passivity 
through so many years should have made the girl an 
idiot; all this meant that I must first, having no cer- 
tain pecuniary expectations, placate you. Instead of 
an idiot I found a girl with a face full of character, a 
heart full of misplaced loyalty, beautiful eyes full of 
thought, and the most marvellous self-control. And 
let me pause to warn you that she will not stay in your 
hands forever. I was instantly attracted, and we came 
over on the same ship.” He paused, looking down on 
the floor. “ Glorious ! how soft her little chin was 
when I buttoned her coat ” 

“ You seem to have taken, and she to have per- 
mitted, great liberties,” Mrs. Saunders interrupted. 

Mark looked at her slowly, and she quailed under 
his eyes. “ You came here,” he went on after a mo- 
ment, “your plan was for Creswick; you amused me, 
but I meant no evil. I saw at once, however, that to 
win the girl I'd have to win you first, and, thinking 
you of age to take care of yourself, I drifted into this 
nasty snarl. As soon as my amiable aunt saw that I 
was really in love with the girl, she informed me that 
I must not depend on her, nor must I hurt the girl 
if I wanted to inherit. The plan came to me bit by 
bit, to keep you so interested that you would let me 
marry the girl. What is it Balzac says about the last 
love of a woman? Of course as soon as the marriage 
160 


The Making of Jane 

settlements should be signed I would have told you 
that all along I had loved you in a platonic way, as a 
comrade. You remember you spoke of me as a com- 
rade? And if those damned creditors had not crowded 
me the other day, and you had not saved me by that 
loan, I’d defy you and take the child away.” 

Mrs. Saunders drew a long breath, and an unpleas- 
ant smile came on her lips, and she said, slowly: “ But 
the creditors did crowd you, and the loan was large, 
and, remembering it, what will you do?” 

Mark’s eyes flashed. “ Don’t anger me,” he said, 
quickly ; “ remember, I can take the girl away in spite 
of the loan, and you’d not be able to lift a finger.” 

“ And then — starve? ” 

“ With her I should not mind even that, but I have 
a sentiment against stealing your money. Instead, I 
will go away, not too suddenly, and write the usual 
rot about change of feelings.” 

“ You really are fine, Mark.” 

“ Did you hope for the pleasure of hearing me rave, 
of hearing me plead for mercy — mercy from you? 
Knowing you, I’ve always counted on this possibility, 
so was partly prepared as to what I should do. But 
one thing you are to remember, if you are unkind to 
the child, if you add one jot or one tittle to her pain, 
you shall suffer. Never fear but you will suffer, and 
at my hands. You cannot set the law on me, you 
know, too many questions would occur to Mr. Saun- 
ders. I have no mercy on you, because you do not 
deserve mercy. I don’t think that you have ever been 
good, or tender, or true; self-centred people never are. 

161 


The Making of Jane 

All that you have done has been done for the praise of 
this world; flattery is the breath of life to you, and to 
get it you have pretended to much. I’ve had no com- 
punctions in deceiving you, because you never hesitate 
to deceive; you’ve deceived yourself for so long that 
you have come at last to believe in yourself. As for 
your husband, I’m not sure that he is as blind as you 
think. He is tired, so he evades you as the easiest 
thing to do. But the girl — poor child, poor child; it 
is all so cruel. Many times I’ve wondered why a just 
God should have permitted such a helpless, sensitive 
soul as hers to come into such hands as yours and 
mine. She is being saved at last, but through what 
suffering. How could she need purifying fires? I’ll 
give her up as cruelly and brutally as is possible; it 
will be all that I can do for her, God bless her! It will 
not need to be very coarse brutality either, even a lit- 
tle thing that is not noble will cure her of the pain of 
loving me; but as I have said, you are to keep your 
hands off. If I ever hear that you have done other 
than this I swear that I’ll go straight to Mr. Saunders. 
And another thing, I have not soiled her ears with any 
hint of this ugly snarl; in her eyes you are as intact 
as ever you have been. I’ll come to dinner this even- 
ing to keep up appearances, but do not have Creswick 
to meet me — I should be sorely tempted to kill him on 
the way home. And you will observe how magnani- 
mous I have been, I have asked you no questions, have 
not investigated your feelings, have not reviled you for 
eavesdropping and peeping. Au revoir,” and allowing 
Mrs. Saunders no further word, he opened the door 
and left her. j^ 2 


The Making of Jane 

So it was that the break came, and of course Jane 
could not understand it. The summer had been trou- 
bled from the first because of the changes in Mrs. 
Saunders, and now Mark began to change. The day 
after his arrival he came to the arbor again; he was 
plainly out of sorts, was moody and silent, and behaved 
strangely, too. After he had been there some time he 
lifted his head as if listening, he went to the opening 
and looked up at the house, and she thought that he 
waved his hand. Was he losing his mind? 

He talked strangely, too. “ I’m a bad man,” he 
said, “a false, black-hearted man; I’m not worth one 
sigh, one tear. The other day in town I sank so low 
that I lost all my self-respect, and I don’t deserve your 
love, your confidence. I should not touch the outer- 
most fold of your longest, widest gown,” and softly 
and slowly he put away from him her hand that he 
had taken. After this he sat staring out of the open- 
ing for a long time, and when at last she spoke he 
answered her sharply. 

“ 111, of course not; you women are so concrete that 
to hear you one would think there was nothing but 
the body to be considered. Ill, yes, but of life; sick, 
yes, but of everything and everybody. Save that there 
is a person in this world whom I wish to torment, I’d 
go at once and commit suicide.” 

His tone was so bitter, his eyes so gloomy that Jane 
drew back. 

“ You are quite right,” he went on, “ draw away 
from me as far as possible, as far as you would from 
a leper.” 

163 


The Making of Jane 

“ I did not mean it in that way.” 

“ Don’t explain yourself, child, I read you like a 
book, a book too good for me. You never mean to do 
wrong, or to think wrong, or to hurt a living soul — I 
know all that, and,” leaning toward her, holding her 
face steady with his two hands, looking at her with 
devouring eyes, “ don’t let anyone know when you are 
hurt — hear? I’m hurting you, I shall hurt you more, 
I may wound you almost to death — ‘ Some of you’ll 
live, but most of you’ll die,’ remember? With a false 
nature like mine you can never tell ; but whatever hap- 
pens don’t show your pain, not even to me. This is 
one of life’s little lessons. If you hear of me dead, with 
a bullet or a dose, don’t wince. I charge you, no tears, 
and if you must be pale, rouge. Red ribbon and 
cologne will do it. I’m not worth a tear, but you will 
want to shed them ; nor a pale cheek, but you will let 
yours blanch. When you go into lunch be gay. You 
think that I am crazy? You are right. I’ll go now. 
I may not come to-morrow.” He rose quickly. “ Re- 
member what I say. Stay here until you are quiet, and 
at lunch — everywhere — seem cheerful, seem happy.” 
Once in the opening his whole look changed. He 
smiled brightly and kissed his hand to her. 

Jane sat quite still. Once she had sat there to re- 
cover from the joy of his love; now she was afraid to 
think, she was afraid of she knew not what. Who 
was it that would watch to see her suffer, who would 
be glad of her pain? And why need she suffer, what 
was going to happen, why need he hurt her? — really 
and truly because he was so false? No, he loved her, 
164 


The Making of Jane 

he loved her. But her vamped up cheerfulness went 
for naught, for Mrs. Saunders did not appear, and Mr. 
Saunders had his papers. 

She was glad that Creswick came for her to play 
golf that afternoon, but surprised that Mrs. Saunders 
ordered the carriage and took them out. Mrs. Saun- 
ders did not play, but followed them everywhere, and 
Mark Witting, who was out there, insisted on being 
Jane’s caddy. 

“ I’ve joined the Christian Endeavorers,” he said, 
“and I must do one kind act every day; I’ll caddy 
for Miss Ormonde, and let Creswick, poor as I am, 
give my just dues to that brown, greedy boy yonder 
who longs to murder me for seeming to deflect his in- 
come. Pay him at once please, Creswick, and send him 
away. I am humbling myself, too, for I don’t think 
that anyone wants me here, except perhaps Mrs. Saun- 
ders. She is always kind and charitable, always going 
out into hedges and things hunting for poor humanity; 
added to this, she is blind to wrong things, even though 
they may be under her very eyes.” 

Creswick laughed. “ If you talk so much,” he said, 
“ we’ll never get round.” 

“ There it is again,” Mark went on, “ snubbed, and 
by a gold-mounted worldling; so it ever is with earnest 
piety — good! How you have improved, Miss Or- 
monde — fine! We will go to that ball, come; will Mrs. 
Saunders come, too? — of course. It’s pleasant trailing 
over the grass in the sunshine, pleasanter than ever 
before — blessings brighten as they take their flight, and 
I may have to ‘ flight ’ to town. Think of it, that dreary 
165 


The Making of Jane 

town in early September! This it is to be an orphan. 
If only I had a father to toil all the year round in a 
hot office I’d be in better case, and would not have to 
run business errands for my aunt. I feel a great ad- 
miration for the old Spartan way of having an age 
limit — think how much more currency would be sent 
floating about the world if my aunt’s fortune were in 
my hands! As it is, I run errands, I compromise my 
debts, and barter my soul. Soul is an immaterial 
thing; still, so long as it is the fashion to think of it 
as a valuable possession, I’d like to keep mine and be 
in the fashion. But I am losing everything; I soon 
shall be bankrupt, very soon; but someone says — is it 
the devil or a Frenchman — that ‘ crooked sticks make 
a straight fire,’ see? I shall find my vocation in that 
nice warm place that the pious have built for the peo- 
ple whom they do not like.” 

Jane was distressed. She could not understand this 
new kind of nonsense; she could not understand Mrs. 
Saunders’s manner either; her determined following of 
Mark and herself; her smiles, that were so lacking in 
all signs of amusement; her unusual silence. She tried 
to stay with Creswick, and he, catching one look from 
her eyes that expressed far more than she knew, made 
a point after this of keeping his ball with hers, and at 
the last insisting on her walking home. 

“ You must let her walk with me, Mrs. Saunders,” 
he said, quietly, and Mrs. Saunders acquiescing, Mark 
Witting laughed and took out his watch. 

“ I’m sorry that I’ll not be able to stay for tea,” he 
said, “ but time’s up ; the unprotected orphan must 
1 66 


The Making of Jane 

go now, at once. Pleasant walk, pleasant drive to 
you,” and he left them. 

Tea did not last long, then Mrs. Saunders drove 
away, and Jane and Creswick went slowly homeward 
across the hills, she thankful for the quiet walk, he 
longing more than ever to take her away from the 
surroundings that seemed so alien to her. 

For two or three days Jane did not see Mark; then 
one morning he came into the arbor, reluctantly, it 
seemed, and after a few moments suggested that they 
should go to the house, should sit on the piazza, the 
chairs there were so much more comfortable than the 
bench. 

“Why, yes,” Jane answered, and they astonished 
Mr. Saunders by joining him. Creswick, passing 
stepped in, and Mark proposed cards, and Mrs. Saun- 
ders, appearing later, found a cheerful quartette. 

The next morning Jane went out as usual to the 
arbor, Creswick had said that he would bring a new 
book. His reading aloud left her free to puzzle, to try 
to account for Mark’s peculiar behavior, for Mrs. Saun- 
ders’s sudden cessation of speech to her. She was 
never spoken to now, save in the presence of a third 
person, and there was a light in Mrs. Saunders’s eyes 
that roused in Jane a feeling that she must demand 
an explanation, and yet how could she demand any- 
thing of Mrs. Saunders? So the reading was a rest 
to her. 

Through the still air Creswick’s voice travelled far, 
travelled to the road, and Mark Witting paused in his 
passing. The color left his face, then came back with 

1 67 


The Making of Jane 

a rush. He set his teeth, stopped a second as if de- 
liberating, then vaulted the fence. He looked up to 
the windows of the house, deliberately scanning each 
one as, with his hands in his pockets, he walked slowly 
across the grass. Presently his look fastened on one 
window, and he smiled insolently. At the opening in 
the arbor he paused, taking off his hat. “ Deeply in- 
terested? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” Jane answered; “won’t you sit down and 
listen? Or if you want a comfortable chair,” and she 
actually smiled a little looking up at him, “ you will 
find Cousin Henry on the piazza.” 

An amused look came into Mark’s eyes, that had 
such marks of weariness about them. How well the 
child did it, how more than ever he loved her. “ I 
hoped for another game of cards,” he said. 

Jane shook her head. “ I’m too busy to-day,” she 
answered. “ All summer I’ve been on this one piece 
of embroidery, and I must finish it.” 

“Will you give it to me?” 

“ Yes, if you wish it.” 

Mark sat down beside her and took the work into 
his hands. “ This is not the conventional passion- 
flower piece,” he said; “I’d rather have that.” 

“ Then you will have to ask cousin,” and Jane 
smiled; “ that was hers.” 

“True? Then I’d rather have this one. You have 
done it out here in the arbor, haven’t you? So of 
course have worked all the summer into it. I see a 
likeness to Creswick in it, and to myself, and to Geist, 
and to the arbor — yes, I must have this, and some 
168 


The Making of Jane 

time when I am far away it will do the magic-rug act 
and bring me back to this spot and to all my friends. 
Give it to me?” 

“ I never dreamed of doing so useful a piece of em- 
broidery.” 

“When will it be done?” 

“ In a little while if you will give it back to me, then 
it must be pressed and cut out.” 

“ Not at all, I want it just as it is, fresh from your 
hands, with those hoops in it, too.” A little vehemence 
had come into his voice, and Creswick looked at him 
coldly. 

“ I’ll come back for it before I go,” Mark went on, 
“and you must give it to me just as it stands; and 
please leave the needle sticking in the last stitch, which 
must not be stitched. There’s a pathos in unfinished 
things, a mystery. You remember Michael Angelo’s 
statues in San Lorenzo, where those unfinished faces 
look at you from out the stone? A parable of life. 
You remember how I laughed at your books on 
the steamer that first voyage, those finished books, 
where all the characters come together at the last, 
and the Mary-Anns marry the Peters, and the Maudes 
marry the Arthurs, and all the fathers walk about with 
three or four children on their shoulders, and all the 
mothers sit under apple-trees and smile — all the vil- 
lains being dead, of course, and all the villainesses hav- 
ing been converted and become violent reformers and 
presidents of asylums and cruelty-to-butterflies socie- 
ties? Absurd; ’tis not so in life, we only catch 
glimpses, and we know that real tragedy only begins 
169 


The Making of Jane 

with matrimony. No, give me the mystery and possi- 
bility of unfinished things, give me that embroidery 
with that last stitch untaken. Good-by — I’ll come back 
for it.” 

There was a moment’s silence when he left them, 
then Jane, smoothing her work, said: “ Please go on, 
Mr. Creswick.” 

“And you will give it to him?” Creswick asked. 

“ Yes, why not? ” and she smiled. “ Please go on.” 
And all through Creswick’s reading, all through her 
own confusion and pain, she could hear Mark’s voice 
on the piazza, his laugh that seemed to jar, then Mrs. 
Saunders’s voice coming in later. Steadily she stitched, 
steadily Creswick read, carefully and well until the end. 
The story was finished, and he closed the book. Jane 
looked up as if surprised, then seemed to come back 
from a great distance. “ Finished? ” she asked. 

“ Yes; is the last stitch arrived at? ” 

“ One moment, then we’ll go and give it to him,” 
and Jane did not observe the significant fact that Cres- 
wick asked no questions as to the book, suggested no 
discussion. 

“ The last stitch,” she said presently, and carefully 
stuck the needle in. “ It does look pathetic,” and 
Creswick saw that her hands trembled. He did not 
understand, but as she bade him he followed her to 
the house. They did not speak as they crossed the 
grass, their footsteps made no sound, they seemed to 
appear suddenly, and Mark sprang to his feet. Mrs. 
Saunders smiled, and Jane looked up from where she 
was mounting the steps. 

170 


The Making of Jane 

“ I’ve finished/’ she said, “ all save that last stitch, 
and I’ve brought it to you.” There was a smile on the 
girl’s lips and a quiet dignity in her look that made 
Creswick’s heart bound with pleasure, but it was per- 
haps fortunate that Jane did not see the look in Mrs. 
Saunders’s eyes, instead she was looking straight at 
Mark, and holding the work out to him. 

He took it slowly; he did not look up. “The last 
stitch that will never be taken,” he said. 

Mr. Saunders had risen, and stood looking over 
Mark’s shoulder. “ What in the world are you talk- 
ing about? ” he asked. 

“ I’m giving that work to him,” Jane answered, 
“ and he asked me not to finish it.” 

“You’ve left two stitches,” and Mark handed the 
work back to her; “please take one where I can see 
you, and stick the needle in the other.” 

Her hands were not trembling now, not even to 
Creswick’s watchful eyes, and she took the stitch care- 
fully, then pushing the needle into the last stitch, with 
the same precision, she again held it out, smiling. 

“ Thank you,” then Mark folded it carefully. “ I’ve 
left the touch of your hand inside, you see,” and for 
the first time he met Jane’s eyes. How proud she 
looked, how well she was doing it, and he turned and 
smiled down on Mrs. Saunders. Jane looked, too, then 
turned quickly away, and the party broke up. 


171 


XI 


“ Knowledge by suffering entereth.” 

J ANE was holding a note somewhat as if it burned 
her fingers. All mail matter went first to Mrs. 
Saunders, at least that was the order; but without 
a word on either side, Simmons used his own discre- 
tion as to Jane’s letters and notes, and this missive had 
been brought to her quietly just after breakfast. 

She had had a number of notes from Mark Witting, 
but they had been brought always by a messenger; 
they had been always in a certain kind of very fine 
envelope; this one was quite different. It was in a 
very uncompromising stamped envelope, and had come 
by post. She had looked at it a moment as it lay on 
the tray, then up at Simmons. 

“ It came by the mail, Miss Jane,” he said. 

“ Thank you.” 

“ If there is any answer, Miss Jane,” Simmons went 
on, “ I’m at your service, Miss.” 

“ You are very good, Simmons.” Then she took 
her way up-stairs. Half-way she paused; Mrs. Saun- 
ders was not dressed, so could not come to the arbor, 
while Jane’s room was just down the hall. She came 
down and went out of the front door. If Creswick 
came to the arbor it would be nothing if he found her 
reading a letter. 


172 


The Making of Jane 

A stamped envelope and through the mail, so that 
Mrs. Saunders might have seen it. She paused a sec- 
ond over this thought; then, if he had gone away, he 
had mailed it before he left, for it was post-marked 
“ Hillside Springs.” She turned it over. 

Something was wrong, very wrong; something had 
happened. The whole summer had been strange and 
uneasy, and she had not been happy; but it had been 
worse ever since Mark’s return from Newport. The 
greatest change had come on that very day. And this 
note she was sure meant some further change. “ I 
am hurting you; I shall hurt you more; I may wound 
you almost to death,” he had said, so of course this 
was something that would hurt her. There was a look 
about the outside of the note as if he had lost the wish 
to please her, as if anything would do for her. And 
she must not let anyone see that she was pained, must 
rouge to hide her whiteness! It might be better to 
determine not to be hurt. If he had deliberately 
planned to hurt her, she would defy him, and she tore 
open the envelope. A single sheet of ruled paper and 
a few carelessly written lines: 

“Dear Miss Ormonde: 

“ Am sorry to leave without saying good-by, espe- 
cially as I do not know when I shall see you again, 
being gone off on important business. Anything sent 
to my club, however, will reach me. Will write as 
soon as I know my plans. 

“ Your very sincere friend, 

“ M. Witting.” 


173 


The Making of Jane 

She turned it over, she read it again, then slowly 
she put it back into its envelope, and looked around 
her as if dazed. Gone indefinitely, gone without a 
word! “ Anything sent to his club — ” her eyes flashed, 
had she so belittled herself that he expected her to 
answer this? There were no tears, there was no 
blanching of her cheeks. If Mark could have seen her 
he would have realized the futility of his suggestion as 
to rouge. She was in a fury of humiliation and pain, 
she loathed herself, she had succumbed so easily, she 
had been as wax, moulded this way and that as he 
willed. She had fallen so easily into his hands that he 
did not value her, had thrown her away ! 

She rose hastily. She could not stay in that place 
where every inch of earth, every leaf and twig had 
become hateful to her. There it was he had charmed 
her, had hypnotized her, had befooled her! She could 
not stay there; and yet, and yet — a dry sob broke 
the stillness — he had loved her! He had been very 
strange lately, and yesterday he had seemed beside 
himself. The pathos of the unfinished — the last stitch 
that would never be taken. She sat down again weak 
and trembling. He had been so bitter of late, he had 
been so cruel. If he had not loved her he would have 
been calmly indifferent. 

Perhaps he had gone away suddenly, had been 
obliged to write at the post-office, at the station, and 
on what paper he could get. Perhaps she had mis- 
understood, had misread. She took the note out once 
more, and again the blood rushed to her face. No, 
she had not misread. Careless and cool, almost con- 
174 


The Making of Jane 

temptuous, and “ Dear Miss Ormonde ” — it had been 
“ Little Cherry-Love/’ or “ Little One,” or “ Hidden- 
Violet-of-My-Soul ”; every word of his other notes 
had struck her as having been carefully chosen for her 
alone, and none of them, he had said, were good 
enough to meet her eyes, nor strong enough to ex- 
press his feeling. This was a studied insult. He 
would write again, and again her eyes blazed. 

He had said that he was not noble, and he was not; 
there at least he had spoken true, and one other place; 
he had loved her, let no one deny that — he had loved 
her. In his eyes, in his voice, in his touch, he had 
loved her. Tired, no, he had not tired; something 
strange had happened, something strange when he was 
in town those days. He had fallen so low, he said, 
that he had lost his self-respect. Why he had not told 
her, she would have forgiven him. Again there came 
the dry little sob, she would have forgiven anything. 
Never would he have done for any woman what he 
had done to win her. What? He had said that on the 
very day he returned from Newport, the very day 
the strange change came, and he had meant it. He 
had been so glad that day, and now he had let her go! 
Oh, this hateful, hateful note! She struck the flimsy 
thing. “ Anything sent to his club ” — she got up 
hastily, she could not live in the same world with that 
note, and she went to the house. 

Again, who was it would watch to see her pain? 
Her Cousin Henry? — he had been always so kind. 
Her world was a small one, and besides Mr. Saunders 
there were no others save Laurence Creswick and 
175 


The Making of Jane 

Mrs. Saunders. Creswick, of course not, his one wish 
was to make her happy; but she paused in her thoughts 
and almost in her walk before the name of Mrs. Saun- 
ders. She seldom saw her now, save in the presence 
of others, and if they met on the stairway or in the 
halls no word was said in passing. And yesterday, 
yesterday what an angry look had been in her eyes 
when Mark had taken the embroidery. Angry? She 
repeated the word, then raised her head and looked 
far away. Was it anger that she had seen there? 

Her life had been so circumscribed, her experience 
had been so extremely limited, she had been so or- 
dered, so suppressed, and of her own motion she had 
so forbidden herself to judge or to draw conclusions, 
had so drilled herself into an honorable subjection of 
all her faculties, that now from long habit she paused 
before so reversing her life as to pass judgment on 
Mrs. Saunders, the woman who had educated and sup- 
ported her, who had trained her and clothed her, who 
all these years had relieved her father and mother of 
the burden of her support. 

She walked on slowly into the house. She had not 
passed judgment; this man who had left her, this 
stranger who had forsaken her, should not tempt her 
to disloyalty. Mrs. Saunders had done nothing, and 
the look yesterday might well have meant that she was 
provoked at the folly of the whole transaction concern- 
ing the embroidery. 

Her head was well up now, and the light in her eyes 
and the color in her cheeks did not look like despair 
or sorrow. In the hall she met Simmons. “ There 
176 


The Making of Jane 

is no answer,” she said, handing him Mark Witting’s 
letter, “ and will you burn this in the kitchen? ” 

The days went by, and Jane lived as in a dream. 
She went every morning to the bench in the arbor, 
taking a book and her work. If Creswick came he 
read aloud to her while she embroidered; if not, she 
read to herself. She could not have told what it was 
she read, but she went through the mechanical part 
of it, sometimes saying the words aloud. When Cres- 
wick read she was conscious that she deliberately took 
her mind up and put it down on the subject, compell- 
ing it to stay there. He was not worth a tear, a sigh, 
a pale cheek, Mark had declared, and she had decided 
that he was not worth a thought. He had said that he 
would write again; she would wait. 

Meanwhile her training in self-control came to her 
rescue. She went about her usual avocations in the 
usual way, and Creswick, watching, came to the con- 
clusion that the scene over the embroidery had been 
some of Mark Witting’s nonsense. Mark had never 
seemed to be in love with the girl, his attentions had 
been all in the direction of Mrs. Saunders, so much so 
that it had been talked about a little. Nor had the 
girl seemed to care for Mark. Once or twice he had 
seen Mark look at her in a way that had provoked 
him, but never had he been puzzled until Mark had 
talked in such a melodramatic manner about unfin- 
ished things. Jane’s hands had trembled, too, but she 
had gone on the porch so openly, and had explained 
so clearly and so simply the facts of the case that it 
could not have meant anything more than was on the 
1 77 


The Making of Jane 

surface. And surely Mrs. Saunders would not have 
allowed Mark Witting to pay any serious attentions 
to the girl. He could not support her, and had been 
talked about more than any man he had ever known 
who had been permitted to remain in respectable clubs. 
There could not be anything in it, and now that Mark 
had gone away indefinitely, so Miss Witting said, the 
whole thing would come to an end, and Creswick put 
it from him, and came a little oftener to the bench. 

It was early in September that Simmons, bearing a 
tray with a letter on it, again sought Jane as she left 
the breakfast-room. He made no explanation this 
time, and she did not pause before taking it, for it was 
a most correct letter in size and shape and material. 
“Thank you,” she said, then turned to the parlor, 
where a fire was burning. 

She had seen Mr. Saunders go out, and now she 
knelt down on the hearth-rug. It was from Mark, 
she had seen that at a glance, but she had made no 
sign before Simmons that her heart seemed to be 
choking her, and even now, when absolutely alone, 
she steadied her hands before she broke the seal. It 
was dated the day before and written from his club, 
and began as the first note had begun — “ My dear 
Miss Ormonde.” She paused a moment, then rose to 
her feet — it was better to receive a blow standing. 

“My dear Miss Ormonde: 

“ If you know me at all you know that I never beat 
about the bush, that even in my indirection I am di- 
rect. And if I know you at all, I am under the im- 
178 


The Making of Jane 

pression that you, also, prefer directness. This letter 
is to tell you, then, that with me everything has 
changed, both within and without. That my conduct 
is inexplicable goes without saying; I can only add 
that it is far better that it should remain unexplained. 
I am not worthy of you, and knowing this as well as 
I did I should never have approached you. I make 
no excuses, and hope that you will judge me as harshly 
as it is possible for your gentle nature to do. I shall 
not come near you again, but I have the temerity to 
ask that you will permit me to keep the few memen- 
toes which I possess of our intercourse. I shall never 
forget it, or you. May God bless you more in the 
future than He has done in the past. 

“ Yours very truly, 

“Mark Witting.” 

Very slowly Jane read it through the second time. 
She paused a moment, then touched a bell, and Sim- 
mons appearing, she handed him the letter. 

“ Will you burn this also?” she said; “ it will smell 
disagreeably if burned in here,” and she went quietly 
up-stairs to her room. 

She would not write a line to him, but she would 
at once send back the few things that he had given 
her. A book at Christmas, another he had brought 
her that summer; the one or two flowers he had put 
into her hands on special occasions she would burn — • 
he must not know that she had kept them. With some 
notes, the two books were all that she would have to 
return. She laid the few things on her writing-table; 
so few, so intrinsically without value, that yet had 
179 


The Making of Jane 

seemed to represent such worlds of devotion, had 
seemed the foundation of all her future life. 

Her treasures, that by some trick of memory brought 
back the treasures of her childhood, and their confis- 
cation that had so rent her heart, that had so changed 
her nature. The smirched rag-doll, and the dollar, and 
the soap ! She had sent Fanny away virtually — Fanny, 
who had been sorry — and she had later, at different 
times, destroyed the remaining contents of the work- 
box. The thread she had dropped into the fire, the 
scissors and thimble into the sea, and the box, broken 
up bit by bit, she had burned, watching for opportu- 
nity. They had been desecrated, and she hated them. 

“ May God bless you more in the future than He 
has done in the past,” Mark had written. Her bless- 
ings had been dubious, and a look came into her eyes 
as if her heart was sick — a look so forlorn, so forsaken, 
that one watching would have been relieved if she had 
washed it away with tears. Instead, she tied the notes 
into a packet, and carefully cutting from the books 
the fly-leaves where her name had been written, she 
wrapped each one in a bit of tissue-paper, then made 
a neat bundle of it all, tying it securely and addressing 
it to the club from which his note had been written; 
then went about putting on a walking-dress. She 
would go at once, before Mrs. Saunders emerged, and 
send off these things — they must go by return mail. 
If he sent back anything, Simmons would burn it. 
The embroidery with the needle in it — this was what 
he had meant, and she paused in her preparations; 
the pathos of the unfinished. 

180 


The Making of Jane 

She was standing before the looking-glass, and she 
deliberately scanned the expression of acute pain that 
had contracted her face. That was how suffering 
looked. Not pretty; and why suffer? — it was all im- 
agination, fancy. What was it to suffer? Cutting 
one’s finger had something tangible about it; but feel- 
ings, heart, memories — what were these formless, im- 
ponderable things that they should trouble her? What 
did it matter? Life would go on as before, and in this 
case there w*as no pathos of the unfinished, for now 
the unfinished was finished, dead, and soon to be 
buried; the books in the post-office — how unromantic 
— and the flowers? Suppose she buried the flowers in 
the arbor; they would return to earth, might nourish 
other flowers for slack-principled men to give to wit- 
less girls; the fire were better, they would go up in 
smoke and come down in rain; that would make flow- 
ers far more surely than if buried in that arbor that 
was too shady to permit growth. Their decay might 
nourish the shrubs of the arbor, but no one would 
give one of those stiff branches as a token. Since in 
the last analysis annihilation was impossible, she would 
put them where they would return in the least harm- 
ful form. 

Slack-principled, that was Mark. How had she 
thought of such a combination of words as that? 
Slack-principled, ignoble. She would like to tell him 
this, to write him this. He was not noble — of course 
not — then why tell him? In order to mind it he would 
have to feel nobility. He would know what the word 
meant, but he would not mind, not being the thing 
1 8 1 


The Making of Jane 

itself. No, she would not write it, would not com- 
municate with him. He might misunderstand her 
motives ; an ignoble man would be capable of suspect- 
ing low motives. 

A knock came at the door, and Simmons entered 
with a card. “ Mr. Creswick, Miss Jane, and will you 
kindly take a walk with him? ,, 

“Yes,” then she paused a moment; she could mail 
the package. “Yes,” she repeated; “I will be down 
in a moment.” Motion, something to do, that was 
what she wanted. How fortunate that he had come. 

It was an exquisite day, crisp and cool, and as they 
went slowly down the front steps, Creswick said: “ I 
did not find you in the arbor; too cool, I thought, 
and so I proposed a walk. Where shall we go? ” 

“ To the post-office first,” Jane answered, “ after that 
I do not care; any place will be beautiful on such a 
day as this. Indeed to live is enough. We might just 
sit down on the roadside and live.” 

“ Someone might join us.” 

“ Not if we select our seats with discretion — in the 
mud, for instance.” 

Creswick looked down on her. “ What has troubled 
you?” he asked. 

“Trouble?” the girl repeated, “that remark meant 
imbecility, Mr. Creswick, not trouble.” 

“Shall we go to the ‘Blue Hills’ ?” Creswick 
went on. 

“My word! but wasn’t I romantic when I named 
those hills. Do you remember, Mr. Creswick?” 

“ Of course, the very first time that I ever went 
182 


The Making of Jane 

anywhere with you. A day just like this, though it 
was in the early summer ” 

“ Last summer; that seems ten thousand years 
away,” Jane interrupted. 

“ And you were in white,” Creswick went on, “ with 
a white jacket ” 

“ And a black hat trimmed with field-flowers,” Jane 
again put in. “ Don’t go into millinery, though per- 
haps I ought to encourage that kind of memory in a 
man. But I’d been reading a poem about people who 
longed to go to the hills that were blue ” 

“ And when the poor wretches reached the hills that 
were blue,” Creswick put in, “ they did not know it 
because they also were green.” 

Jane laughed. “ Did I explain all that?” she asked. 

“Of course; you used to explain everything to me 
then, you were just out from under your pastors and 
masters. You gave me much instruction as to small 
talk, also. Shall I put your package in for you? ” 

Jane shook her head. “ It is a bad luck package,” 
she said; “I’ll put it in myself. What is your ideal 
of a gentleman? ” she went on when they had resumed 
their walk. 

“ My grandmother is a very religious woman,” 
Creswick answered, “ and she made me learn the fif- 
teenth psalm as the creed of a gentleman.” 

“ I do not remember it.” 

“The chief requirements are ” 

“ I do not want the chief requirements, I want the 
whole thing.” 

“ Are to speak the truth from the heart,” Creswick 

183 


The Making of Jane 

went on, “and to keep a promise, whether made in 
the letter or the spirit. ,, 

“ I wanted to hear it all,” the girl said, slowly, “ be- 
cause I want some light on the question of nobility. 
Do you think a man can be a gentleman and ignoble? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Are all the men I know noble? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Then you are not sure that your friends are gen- 
tlemen? ” 

“ From that stand-point, I am not sure about my- 
self.” 

Jane looked up at him quickly, and for a little while 
they walked on in silence. They had left the village, 
and were now on the country road, making for the 
hills. The air was fresh and sweet with blowing over 
the snowy buckwheat fields; the berries of the moun- 
tain-ash were turning from gold to crimson; the hop- 
fields, the orchards, were all ripe for the gathering, 
and the old fences, overgrown with vines and briers, 
were turned to massed sunshine by the golden-rod. 

“ It is enough to live on such a day as this,” Jane 
repeated. 

Creswick looked about him, then down at his com- 
panion. “ You seem so different to-day,” he answered, 
irrelevantly, “so troubled; what is it? Who has hurt 
you, you who cannot protect yourself? Why not put 
your life into my hands, and have no more trouble? ” 

“ Man is born to trouble,” Jane answered. “ No one 
can save another; we make our own shadows, you 
know.” She paused, then added: “ I am sorry, but I 
have answered that so many times.” 

184 


The Making of Jane 

“ Yes, but I have never accepted your answer.” 

They were walking very slowly, and Jane was using 
her closely rolled umbrella to hit aimlessly at the sticks 
and stones that came in her way. 

“You are making a mistake,” Creswick went on; 
“ you should remember the saying, ‘ There is always 
one who loves, and one who is loved.’ The wise 
woman marries the man who loves her.” 

“ Is it never mutual? ” 

“ Never absolutely balanced.” 

“ And the woman who could stop to make that cal- 
culation would not be worth having.” 

“ I have made it for you.” 

“ I cannot marry a man I do not love.” 

“ Until you love someone else I shall persist.” 

“ Now you are the unwise one, for I am perfectly 
truthful when I say that I do not intend to marry at 
all,” and she thumped on the ground with her um- 
brella as if for conviction. 

“ You all say that, and yet, what else will you do?” 

Jane glanced up at him. “ I’ve been thinking about 
that,” she answered, frankly, “ and I don’t know how 
to struggle.” 

“ Then why struggle? And when you get old? ” 

“ There are plenty of old widows.” 

Creswick laughed. “At least it is not their fault 
that they are not cared for,” he said. 

“ It is their fault that they have not learned to care 
for themselves,” Jane retorted. 

“ Humanity has to take chances in everything.” 

“ And that is just what I think I shall do,” Jan^ 


The Making of Jane 

agreed. “ But it is true she went on, more slowly, 
“ people always say a man is making a fortune, and a 
woman is making a living. I shall probably only 
make a living — if that.” 

They had reached the top of the hill by this time, 
and took their seats at the roots of a solitary elm. 
“ How lovely,” Jane said. 

“ Yes,” Creswick answered, “ it is.”^ 

“ But you are not interested.” 

“ I’ve seen it before.” 

“ You asked me once,” Jane said, suddenly, “ if I 
had no dreams. I’ve begun to dream; will you be 
interested in them?” 

“ Profoundly.” 

“ I am thinking seriously of turning out to achieve 
something — to make a fortune.” 

“ Is it necessary? ” 

There was a pause, in which Jane seemed to be ab- 
sorbed in the scenery, then, with her eyes still far 
afield, she said: “Mrs. Saunders is my cousin only by 
marriage. Her husband and my father were brought 
up like brothers. Cousin Henry made some money 
and married a great deal; my father did neither, his 
wealth is in children, and to show his love for Cousin 
Henry, I, the eldest one, was named Jane for Cousin 
Henry’s wife.” 

“ A beautiful name.” 

“ And Cousin Henry having no children,” Jane went 
on, “ showed his affection by educating and in a meas- 
ure adopting me. You knew that I was adopted? ” 

“ I supposed so.” 

1 86 


The Making of Jane 

“And now the feeling is gradually taking posses- 
sion of me,” the girl went on, “ that the time has come 
for me to do something; to arise in my might and 
declare myself.” In her voice there was a note of bit- 
terness that was absolutely new and that troubled her 
companion; in the next words, however, it had dis- 
appeared. “ Nonsense aside,” she said, “ I must put 
something into my life. They have given me an edu- 
cation; have clothed me; have travelled me over the 
world, and I — I have accepted it.” 

“ What were you expected to do?” 

Jane was silent. 

Creswick smiled. “ I can guess,” he said, “ you are 
expected to marry well.” 

“ And I do not want to marry at all,” Jane put in, 
quickly, “ and I think that I ought to tell cousin this. 
And then I am tired of this life, tired — tired! From 
morning to night we earn our amusements by the 
sweat of the brow, and when night comes we have not 
been amused. You men dress in one costume, and 
tear over the country after a tame fox or something 
less; you put on another costume, and hit balls across 
the grass, and still another in which to eat your din- 
ners.” 

Creswick laughed. “ Would it be more real if we 
did not change?” he queried. 

“ Nothing can make it real,” Jane answered, slowly; 
“ it is all a masquerade; you have nothing to do, and 
you do it violently, but it brings you no satisfaction.” 

“ I have not said so.” 

“ You look it continually. And for me, I do no 
187 


The Making of Jane 

more good now than when as a child on our wilder- 
ness of a plantation I made gardens of cut flowers and 
laid out dust cities. And^of course I must have been 
made for something. Think of all the generations be- 
hind me, of all the combined people that I am! You 
are all this, too, and there must be something for us 
to do, we must be good for something. I must tell 
cousin. I feel as if I were living under false pretences 
— deceiving her.” 

“ And she will laugh and will not let you go.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” Jane answered, slowly; 
“ she may agree to the truth that I have not come up 
to the mark that she has set for me; if so, I’ll go out 
at once and make my fortune.” 

“ How? ” 

“ I do not know yet.” She paused, then went on 
more slowly : “ Something is very wrong somewhere. 
I seem to be realizing suddenly that my life is all a 
mistake, that I am growing dull through pretending 
that nothing is something, that this daily round of 
absolute uselessness is of importance. I’d like to be 
contented; I’d like to revert into the old-fashioned 
girl that my mother must have been; go back to the 
generation that really believed that ‘ Men must work 
and women must weep.’ I’d give a great deal to be 
like that. From her letters I think that my mother 
is like that,” and she began to dig in the ground with 
her umbrella. 

“ And she married,” Creswick said. 

“ The man she loved,” Jane answered, slowly, “and 
risked far more than this worldly wise generation would 
188 


The Making of Jane 

think of risking. She knew that her husband was a 
gentleman and a Christian, and neither she nor her 
parents seem to have made any other requirements. 
They were quite sure that they would be happy, and 
they have been, though cousin, who told me all this 
for a warning, does not understand it at all. Father 
plants and reaps, and the bad years run him into debt 
and the good years pull him out, and they love each 
other, and love their children, and of course there are 
lots of us. Everything that goes wrong is for their 
good, and everything that goes right is a direct and 
personal blessing from the Almighty.” 

“ I envy them.” 

“ So do I.” 

Creswick sighed and leaned back so as to rest on 
his elbow. In this position his view of Jane was lim- 
ited to the curve of her cheek and temple and the 
back of one closely set little ear; for the rest, he could 
see the back of her neck as it rose above a linen collar, 
and her hair that waved naturally and trimly up, to be 
lost in a coil. It was not much, but at least he could 
look at it persistently, and look all that he felt. 

“ It is a strange thing,” Jane went on, still prodding 
diligently in the ground with her umbrella, prodding 
with some force, for each prod jarred her a little and 
changed the lights and shadows on her hair. “ A very 
strange thing that women seldom make a permanent 
success, and yet they are as clever on an average as 
men, do not you think so, Mr. Creswick ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“ I think it is that we strike too high; we all go in 
189 


The Making of Jane 

for art, or literature, or music, or the professions — at 
least in our class of life. Of course there are women 
in trade, but you seldom hear of a lady going regu- 
larly into business.” 

“ Groceries,” Creswick suggested. 

“ Well, groceries; why not? What I mean is, going 
seriously into business with a view of building it up 
and making a fortune, not pottering along and posing 
as a ‘ plucky little woman.’ And, by the way, why is 
it that a man always combines plucky and little when 
he wishes to describe a woman who has done some- 
thing? Never mind if she is ten feet high, they will 
say ‘ a plucky little woman.’ Why? ” 

“ Perhaps they mean the plucky to apply to the 
woman, and the little to what she has done.” 

Jane looked round on him slowly. 

“ That is not a chance shot,” he went on, “ that is 
the result of long thought and observation. I knew 
a woman once who was very large and very fond of 
a bargain, and I used to hear her say : ‘ I had such a 
nice little gown made the other day by a new little 
woman I discovered.’ It puzzled me at first, because 
it would have been impossible for that big creature to 
have a little gown, then I came to the conclusion that 
‘ little ’ meant cheap. Applying this to your plucky 
little woman, who is yet ten feet high, I draw the con- 
clusion that little applies to what she has done. But 
may I ask what has caused this sudden burst of dis- 
content? ” 

“ I wanted to tell a man that he was not noble,” Jane 
answered, frankly, “ and I did not do it because I 
190 


The Making of Jane 

thought that if he were not noble he would not under- 
stand it or mind it.” 

Creswick paused a moment. The girl was puzzling 
him greatly. She seemed to have changed radically, 
and all in twenty-four hours, and was talking with a 
freedom, an abandon that he had never before experi- 
enced in her. She seemed to be letting herself go, to 
be revealing all at once all of her stored-up observa- 
tions of people and life, and with a touch of pathetic 
cynicism that he had never suspected. It troubled 
him greatly, and the last speech startled him unpleas- 
antly. He sat up so that he could see Jane’s face. 
“Ought you not to tell Mr. Saunders?” he asked, 
gravely. 

“ No,” and the negative was sharp, and she drew 
away from him as if he were the embodiment of his 
unpalatable advice. “No, it is not worth that; but 
out of it, and out of your fifteenth psalm has come the 
question, Am I noble? And I do not think that I 
am as long as I stay where I am as I am. Come, let 
us go home,” and she rose. 

“And you will keep, in mind what I have said?” 
Creswick asked. 

“ Do not waste your life on me, Mr. Creswick.” 

“ Waiting free until you may need me will not be 
waste.” 

Jane looked up quickly, while the wind blew the 
little curls across her brow, and a new light came into 
her eyes. “ You are noble,” she said; “such a love 
helps one’s self-respect — thank you.” 


XII 


“ The skies seemed true above thee ; 

The rose true on the tree ; 

The bird seemed true the summer through ; 

But all proved false to me ; 

World, is there no good thing in you — 

Life, love, or death — or what ? 

Since lips that sang I love thee 
Have said, I love thee not ? ” 

M RS. SAUNDERS herself had, that morning, re- 
ceived a letter from Mark Witting saying good- 
by. It was brief, and it was also a relief to her. She 
had not as yet allowedherself to think of Mark Witting, 
save to be glad that he was out of her sight ; but some 
day he would come back to pay his debt, and before 
that day Jane must be married to Laurence Creswick. 
There was only the life of one frail old woman be- 
tween her and that event; for if Mark should inherit 
to-morrow, to-morrow he would return. She almost 
trembled at the possibility, for that return would mean 
that he would bear Jane away in triumph. 

She had covered her face a moment, then had shaken 
off the thought. The only way to act sanely was to act 
coolly ; and if she wished to remain cool, she must not 
analyze too closely her feelings as to this complication 
of circumstances. 

Her best plan was at once to resume relations with 
192 


The Making of Jane 

Jane ; she had been silly to drop them ; and work to the 
one end of the marriage with Laurence Creswick. Nor 
must there be explanations with the girl as to the re- 
sumption of the old habits ; she must simply take things 
up where she had put them down, and if Jane had wan- 
dered so far from her training as to ask questions, she 
would say that she had been displeased with her be- 
havior toward Mark Witting. 

Colby reported that the girl had gone to walk with 
Creswick, and though that act in itself pleased her, yet 
that the girl had sent her no message, no intimation 
of her going, showed as decided a change in the girl’s 
attitude toward her as was possible. A month ago 
Jane would not have dreamed of taking such a liberty ; 
but it was her own fault ; she had been absolutely silly 
and — the rest did not matter, only the result, which 
was that Mark having gone, she had recovered her 
balance and must work while she yet had time. She 
would watch for Jane’s coming, and in giving orders 
as to her costumes for the day’s engagements, would 
return to her old attitude of arranger and orderer of 
her life. But it would be hard to be patient, to have 
even a semblance of kindness in her manner. 

Thus it was that she was waiting at the top of the 
staircase when Jane, returning from her walk, began 
to mount them. “ Mrs. Cumming’s tea is this after- 
noon, Jane,” she said. 

The girl started and looked up. “Yes,” she an- 
swered, “yes, I had forgotten.” She stopped, con- 
fused with two wonders ; had her expression betrayed 
anything in the upward look before her face had been 
193 


The Making of Jane 

prepared to meet the face of another? and what did 
Mrs. Saunders’s sudden change of treatment mean? 
and what was she, Jane, expected to do under the cir- 
cumstances? Of course accept whatever Mrs. Saun- 
ders chose to offer, do whatever Mrs. Saunders indi- 
cated; where Mrs. Saunders was concerned, she had 
no rights — she seemed to have no rights anywhere. 
These thoughts rushed through her mind while Mrs. 
Saunders was saying — “ Your heliotrope gown will be 
best for you to wear ; it is too cool for either blue or 
white.” 

Jane had reached the top of the stairs by this time, 
and her doubts as to her course were set at rest by a 
gesture of Mrs. Saunders, motioning her to follow into 
the morning-room. 

“ The heliotrope is exceedingly becoming to you,” 
Mrs. Saunders went on, “ and I wish you to wear it ; 
and at the concert this evening you will wear the pink 
and silver. You have been looking worn of late, and 
need bright colors.” 

The blood rose slowly in Jane’s face. Mrs. Saun- 
ders had returned almost too completely to her old 
treatment ; but what did it matter, as she, Jane, seemed 
not to be able to direct successfully her own life? it 
was well that there was someone to direct it for her, 
and she answered, with a faint smile, “ I must be get- 
ting old.” 

“ That you are losing your looks does not amuse 
me,” Mrs. Saunders answered, coldly. 

Jane easily put away the smile, and began to follow 
the pattern on the rug with her umbrella. 

194 


The Making of Jane 

“ And this morning,” Mrs. Saunders continued, 
“ y°u went out without telling me, and without asking 
if there was anything that you could do for me.” 

“ I did not think of it,” Jane answered, wondering 
if Mrs. Saunders had forgotten how she had been os- 
tracised of late. “ I suppose I thought of you as at the 
baths.” 

“ Impossible ! This summer I have been only twice 
a week.” 

True, Jane remembered too late, and a fleeting 
thought went through her mind that this might have 
been the cause of some of the strange happenings of 
the summer; but how? “It was just a piece of 
thoughtlessness, then,” she said ; “ and you were not 
up.” 

“ And you could not have waited ? ” 

“ Of course, if I had thought.” 

“ And since you were in such a hurry to go out with 
Mr. Creswick, what was it you had to do? ” 

“ Nothing. We walked to where there was a view, 
and rested a little while, then we came back. Like the 
‘ King of France and all his men, we went up the hill 
and down again.’ And the scenery was beautiful, and 
the weather delightful.” 

It was now Mrs. Saunders’s turn to think. There 
was a new tone in Jane’s voice, a spurious flippancy 
in her answer that was absolutely unusual, that 
amounted almost to carelessness of her and her pres- 
ence, and swiftly to her mind came back Mark’s warn- 
ing — ‘ She will not stay in your hand forever.’ It 
was high time that their old habits should be resumed, 
195 


The Making of Jane 

but more gradually than she had begun ; and alarmed, 
she asked, in a kinder voice : “ And what did you talk 

about?” 

“ Many things,” Jane quoted again, then stopped, 
adding, slowly : “ I said that you had educated and 

clothed me from the best sources for years ; that I did 
not think that I deserved it, and ought to go away.” 
And the girl flashed a quick look into the handsome 
face opposite her. 

“ And what did Mr. Creswick say? ” 

“ That he was sure that you would not let me go.” 

“ He supposes that you are necessary to me,” Mrs. 
Saunders suggested. 

“ No, I did not let him think that,” Jane answered, 
quietly. She had returned to following the pattern 
on the rug, and looking down did not see the glance 
that Mrs. Saunders threw in her direction as she asked : 
“ What did you let him think ? ” 

“ That I had not at all reached the standard that you 
had set for me, and that probably you would not ob- 
ject to my departure.” 

“ Very true ; but has it not occurred to you that you 
ought to reach the standard which I have set for you ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you will not try ? ” 

“ I have not said that.” 

Mrs. Saunders’s eyes flashed. Mark Witting had 
understood this girl better than she did ; this was verg- 
ing on rebellion. She must be careful. “ And you did 
not even think of taking the dogs for a run ? ” was her 
irrelevant next question. 


196 


The Making of Jane 

“ If you wish me to take them, cousin, there is still 
time before lunch.” 

“ Have I ever allowed you to exercise the dogs as 
a maid or a footman would? Will it trouble you too 
much to ring that bell ? ” 

Without answering, the girl leaned back and touched 
the button in the wall behind her, which signal was im- 
mediately answered by Colby. “ I wish you to tell 
Simmons, Colby, that Joseph must take the dogs for an 
hour’s run,” Mrs. Saunders ordered. “ Simmons will 
have to arrange the work, but it is imperative that the 
dogs should be exercised. They have not been look- 
ing well lately. And doubtless Mr. Creswick would 
have enjoyed the dogs,” she went on when Colby had 
disappeared. “ Men are always fond of dogs.” 

Still following the pattern of the rug, Jane seemed 
lost in thought, and made no answer. The change in 
Mrs. Saunders’s treatment was puzzling her, and why 
should she not ask the wherefore of it. Not only had 
Mrs. Saunders gone back to their old relations, but she 
had gone back to the treatment which she had dealt 
out to the girl in her school-days ; why should not she 
ask about it? She looked up, but Mrs. Saunders had 
turned to her desk, and the training of Jane’s whole life 
laid a hand on her lips. 

“ Now for my notes,” Mrs. Saunders said. “ Mean- 
while, Jane, you had better see if your heliotrope dress 
needs anything done to it ; at least give it to Colby to 
look over. If there is one thing more than another 
that I have tried to impress on you, it is that freshness 
is the backbone of a costume. Have you ever seen me 
with a soiled ribbon or a bit of tumbled lace ? ” 

1 97 


The Making of Jane 

“ No/’ Jane answered, rising. 

“ Ah ! ” And Mrs. Saunders looked up at her hus- 
band, who had appeared in the doorway. 

“ Am I wanted ? ” And Mr. Saunders looked from 
his wife to Jane and back again. 

“ No,” Mrs. Saunders answered ; “ but, by the way, 
Henry, don’t call on Joseph for anything. I have had 
to send him out with the dogs. I really think the dogs 
are your business, you know, and Jane might have 
helped me with them this morning, especially Geist, 
her own dog, but she did not remember me in her ar- 
rangements.” 

There was a pause, then Jane, saying, “ I’ll go and 
see Colby, cousin,” left the room. 

When the last sound of the girl’s step had died away, 
Mrs. Saunders said to her husband : “ What do you 
think of Jane and Laurence Creswick?” 

“ What is there to think ? ” 

“ First, that I am tired of this place ; it is stupid ; 
and I have come here for two summers.” 

“ By your own wish.” 

“ And that, though Laurence Creswick’s attentions 
to Jane have been so quiet as not to attract public com- 
ment, they have increased steadily until I think that 
by this time they must mean something.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“ That Laurence Creswick would be an uncommon- 
ly good match for Jane.” 

“ And you really think that Creswick is good enough 
for her?” 

“ Good enough ! You astonish me. He comes of 
the best people and is rich ; what more do you want? ” 
198 


The Making of Jane 

Mr. Saunders pulled his mustache slowly, and 
seemed to be following the pattern of the rug with his 
eyes as Jane had followed it with her umbrella. “ I 
wish to keep Janey,” he said ; then he added, bluntly : 
“ And I’ll be hanged if I think any man good enough 
for her.” 

“ You thought yourself good enough for me,” his 
wife returned, crisply. “ But,” she went on, “ you are 
beyond me. Here for no pleasure of my own, simply 
because she was your cousin, I have taken this girl and 
trained, and educated, and clothed her from the best 
sources, as she herself told Larry Creswick, and what 
do you think is to come of it ? ” 

“ You have gained an affectionate companion.” 

“ I’m not sure that I wanted one ; at least not for 
life ; and an old maid means failure. But that is neither 
here nor there. Laurence Creswick is an admirable 
match, and I am sure that his attentions mean some- 
thing.” 

“ I suppose he is in love with her.” 

“ Then it is time that he declared himself.” 

“ He may have done so.” 

“ And Jane not told me ! ” 

“ Of course not if she has refused him.” 

“ Refused him — refused Laurence Creswick ! ” And 
Mrs. Saunders fixed her eyes on the desk in front of 
her. Mr. Saunders glanced at her, then rising, went 
toward the door. When he reached the hall Mrs. 
Saunders raised her head, and he paused. 

“ I should advise you to leave this alone,” he said. 

“ If she has refused Larry Creswick — if ” Mrs. 

199 


The Making of Jane 

Saunders stopped and turned again to her desk. 
Stone-still she sat until Mr. Saunders was out of hear- 
ing, then she shut the door quietly, locking it. Re- 
fused Laurence Creswick! and she struck her hands 
together. Impossible ! And yet, and yet. Had Mark 
known this, had he made the girl keep quiet about this 
also? Had he, for his own purposes, managed this 
whole thing so as to deceive her until “ after the mar- 
riage settlements had been made ” ? Impossible ! 
Creswick would never have continued his attentions if 
Jane had refused him; he had been uncertain about 
Mark and so had waited ; now that Mark was gone, he 
would address the girl, would come to her for her in- 
fluence on the girl ; he was so very conventional, that 
he would never speak to Jane until he had asked per- 
mission of Mr. Saunders or herself. She had fright- 
ened herself unnecessarily, and this afternoon she 
would put some questions to Creswick ; she must find 
out. Also, she would advise him to wait a little before 
he approached Jane. As far as she knew, Mark had 
not as yet written to break his engagement with the 
girl, had not written to her at all. Perhaps was going 
to let silence and neglect do it for him. No, she would 
sound Creswick, win his confidence, then advise him to 
wait. In a little while Jane’s pride would be aroused, 
and on the rebound she would surely accept Creswick. 
Decidedly the best plan was for Creswick to wait. 

It was a long drive to Mrs. Cumming’s, but Mrs. 
Saunders did not avail herself of the opportunity to 
approach the subject of Laurence Creswick, and when, 
on their arrival, he made haste to join them, she held 


200 


The Making of Jane 

out her hand to him with a smile that not only showed 
all her milk-white teeth, but flashed as well from her 
handsome eyes. 

“ A man at an afternoon tea,” she said, “ is as the 
shadow of a great rock in a weary land. I am so glad 
to see you.” 

“ You are very kind ; and may the rock roll around 
with you and Miss Ormonde?” 

“ Of course ; as Miss Witting says, it is a great thing 
for old people to be favored with the company of bright 
young people. Jane, dear, verify my words that you 
are young and bright. But here is Mrs. Cumming. 
Oh, my dear Mrs. Cumming, how good you are to ex- 
ert yourself at this season of the year to have afternoon 
teas! And your place is such a joy; such a superb 
view ! The air is so much better than the air at our 
cottage; but Mr. Saunders and my cousin here have 
become so attached to it that I am afraid that I am 
doomed to it for all the summers of my life. You see 
when a family numbers three, two is a majority. But 
we stop the way ; will you take us for a stroll, Mr. Cres- 
wick? Jane, my dear, rouse yourself; indeed, Mr. 
Creswick, you do not know what I go through,” laugh- 
ing heartily. “ Jane and Mr. Saunders are so averse 
to exertion of any kind that I have not only to arrange 
every detail, manage every department, but, in addi- 
tion, do all the talking.” 

“ Who could object to your doing all the talking, 
Mrs. Saunders ? ” 

“ Flatterer ! ” she cried, shaking her finger at him, 
“ and encouraging my obstinate cousin here, in her 
201 


The Making of Jane 

moody silence. Mr. Saunders smokes and looks as 
wise as an owl ; Jane looks out of the nearest window 
or examines the pattern of the rugs ; she does not look 
as wise as her cousin, but she is just as silent. See 
now how she is looking out across the hills. Poor 
child; run away to the house, dear, if you are not 
happy.” 

Jane turned, and Creswick paused in his walk. 

“ Do not go back with her,” Mrs. Saunders inter- 
posed. “ I know her much better than you do, and she 
would rather go alone.” 

“ Thank you,” Jane said quietly to Creswick, and 
walked away without a look behind. Creswick was 
troubled, and Mrs. Saunders turned to watch the girl 
as she went. 

“ I have had her ever since she was a little child,” she 
said, as if to herself, “ and yet I cannot make her out ; 
she is moody; she is secretive.” 

“ She is most frank and ingenuous,” Creswick inter- 
rupted, quickly. 

Mrs. Saunders smiled indulgently. “ You have 
lived more than a quarter of a century,” she said, “ and 
do you not yet know that women are one thing to men, 
and another to their own sex ? ” 

“ Men are so also.” 

Mrs. Saunders looked away for a moment before 
she brought her handsome eyes, with a liquid light in 
them, to bear on Creswick. “ In your heart you are 
misjudging me,” she said ; “ I see that ; but under the 
circumstances I forgive you. I have been watching 
you for some time, and you love my cousin.” 

“ Of course,” Creswick answered, simply. 


202 


The Making of Jane 

“ And have made the mistake of not taking the old 
matron into your confidence.” 

“ There has been nothing to confide. I love her and 
she does not love me ; that is all.” 

Mrs. Saunders had to control a start, then, in the 
same even tone, she asked : “ And how have you found 
out so much so certainly ? ” 

“ I have asked her not once, but many times.” 

“ Without my permission, without my influence ? ” 

“ I did not wish her to be influenced.” 

“ And may I ask what reason she gives for her ob- 
duracy ? ” 

“ She does not love me.” There was a moment’s 
pause, then Creswick added, with slow decision, as if 
refuting, once for all, some unheard accusation : “ I 
believe in Miss Ormonde as I never expected to believe 
in any woman. I would stake my life on her.” 

“ And yet,” Mrs. Saunders said, slowly, “ she has 
never given me her confidence — as to you, for in- 
stance.” 

“ She regards this as my secret.” 

“ And ever since her childhood I have cared for her 
and loved her, have watched, and arranged, and 
thought for her. But now,” turning on him, “will 
you tell me what you hope to gain by following Jane so 
patiently ? ” 

“ I hope to gain Miss Ormonde. A woman won 
against her will is always worth more than the other 
kind.” 

The color deepened in Mrs. Saunders’s face. “ And 
your plan?” 

“ To make myself agreeable to her, never to worry 
203 


The Making of Jane 

or annoy her, and in time to become necessary to her. 
In short, to become a habit — the Creswick habit.” 
And he laughed a little. “ Am I not humble enough ? ” 

“ Too humble. I know no woman worth that labor.” 

“ Allow me to differ.” 

“ As you like ; but it is sad to be so misunderstood. 
You have been in and out of my house constantly for 
two years, Mr. Creswick, but you have never known 
me, save, perhaps, from another’s representations ; 
consequently you judge me harshly ” 

“ My dear Mrs. Saunders ” 

She lifted a silencing finger. “ I know what you 
would say,” she went on, “ and thank you ; and doubt- 
less Jane has said kind things of me ; she has had no 
occasion to say anything else; but when an outsider 
sees two people together, the one in authority always 
cheerful, and the one under authority always dumb 
and obedient with the punctilious obedience of duty, 
one is apt to judge the one in authority harshly as a 
domestic tyrant — as the ‘ Iron hand in the velvet glove,’ 
and the rest of it. I forgive you, Mr. Creswick, for it 
is quite natural ; but you had done better to have told 
me your intentions.” 

“ You are very kind ; but, as you say, until now I 
have not known you.” 

Mrs. Saunders smiled. “ We will not be sarcastic,” 
she said, “ and perhaps some day you will be a kinder 
judge. I forgive you; women forgive men almost 
everything, you know. And now will you take me to 
the house ? ” 

The drive home was an eventful one, for scarcely 
204 


The Making of Jane 

had Creswick turned away from saying farewell at the 
carriage, when Mrs. Saunders, as it were, pinioned 
Jane with both eyes and tongue. She had found that 
Laurence Creswick loved the girl — was determined to 
win the girl, and under ordinary circumstances she 
would have let things alone; but the impatience of 
years, the jealousy of recent events had turned to fury 
within her, fury that Jane had once more outwitted 
her. So quiet, so calm, so unanswering, this girl since 
her childhood had never winced, had never pleaded, 
and now in silence had gone her own way, quietly hold- 
ing both these men in leash, as it were, while she, her- 
self, had been used as a screen ! Like a searing flame 
this last realization had come to her, but she had con- 
trolled the horrid knowledge, had refused to contem- 
plate it ; now, blindly in her anger, she was trying to 
analyze what it was that stirred her so deeply. Mark’s 
love for the girl ? It was not only this that was driv- 
ing her as with a whip of scorpions ; she seemed, be- 
sides, to be possessed of an unquenchable desire to 
make this insensate creature beside her show some feel- 
ing, to make her acknowledge her supremacy ; and yet, 
she must be careful ; this marriage with Creswick was 
her punishment for Mark, her triumph in her own 
world ; it must be accomplished ; she must control her- 
self. 

“ I had a charming talk with Mr. Creswick,” she be- 
gan, striving to keep her voice from trembling. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And I think that we have obtained a better knowl- 
edge of each other.” 


205 


The Making of Jane 

“Yes.” 

“ He acknowledges/’ Mrs. Saunders went on, “ that 
he has never known me except, of course, from the re- 
ports of others.” 

Jane leaned back with a waiting look on her face. 

“ He seems to have regarded me as something of a 
tyrant.” Mrs. Saunders’s voice was perfectly steady 
now, and perfectly cold. “ The ‘ Iron hand in the vel- 
vet glove,’ and the rest of it. An unpleasant thought 
to be brought home to one, but like all men in love,” 
and the storm lightning began to escape from Mrs. 
Saunders’s eyes, “ he takes all that you say for gospel 
truth.” 

“ I do not remember ever discussing you with Mr. 
Creswick.” 

“Of course not ; I have brought you up too well for 
that; but by not giving me your confidence you have 
seemed afraid of me — have made me seem a tyrant. 
The confidence I allude to is that you have refused him 
not once, but a number of times.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Mere assent will not do in this case. I do not need 
confirmation of Mr. Creswick’s words ; what I wish is 
explanation.” 

“ I do not love him.” 

“ And do you really think that I will take that as 
an explanation ? ” And the expression of Mrs. Saun- 
ders’s mouth was not agreeable. “ You are quite old 
enough to know why for two summers I have come to 
this stupid place, why I have cultivated Laurence Cres- 
wick’s deaf grandmother.” 

206 


The Making of Jane 

“ You spoke of her always as your old friend.” 

“ My dear Jane, have you not learned yet that it is 
folly for you to try to fence with me? Because for 
two years you have succeeded in deceiving me does not 
prove that you have universal wit. Mrs. Creswick is 
my old friend ; but one does not follow up an old friend 
— a deaf old friend — through all eternity. As I say, 
you have deliberately deceived me — have been know- 
ingly trifling with the man I intended you to marry; 
and what I demand is an adequate explanation.” 

“ To refuse a man is not to trifle with him.” 

“You persist in answering me? then listen, and 
learn that two can play at the game of secretiveness.” 
And she leaned forward so as to look directly into the 
girl’s face. “ I did not ask for your confidence — your 
confidence as to Mark Witting, but neither did I give 
you my confidence ; now I will tell you. Now,” smil- 
ing a little, “ I will tell you that he thought you an 
heiress — my heiress.” 

Jane’s dry lips stirred, but they made no sound. 

“ And I disabused his mind.” 

Jane bowed. 

“ Now,” and Mrs. Saunders’s smile vanished, “ now 
I demand to know if you held Laurence Creswick off 
because of Mark Witting? ” 

Jane wiped her dry lips, but no word came. 

“ You are struck dumb to find that two can play at 
keeping counsel? or is it shame? — and does not your 
pride suggest that you accept this other man ? ” 

Jane’s lips were deathly white and her eyes were 
blazing. 


20 7 


The Making of Jane 

“ Is it worth while to split your gloves and to bend 
the handle of your parasol so perilously — an expensive 
parasol ? ” 

Jane’s hands fell apart in her lap, and a dark ring 
seemed to be settling around her lips. Mrs. Saunders 
grasped the girl’s wrist. Her touch had instantaneous 
effect ; Jane drew away quickly, the color rushed to her 
face, and Mrs. Saunders leaned back with a sigh of 
relief. The girl had looked like sudden death. 

“Well?” she queried. 

“ I have a home to go to,” Jane said slowly, as if she 
found speech difficult, “ and I shall go.” 

“ To a father who has eight younger children to 
clothe and educate? And then where do I, and all 
that you owe me, come into your calculations ? ” 

“ You have wiped that out.” 

“ Indeed? ” 

“ I have tried to be grateful,” the girl went on with 
the same seeming difficulty of speech, “ but now you 
must let me go. What you have just done — has can- 
celled everything, and I assure you that — that I will 
never do as you wish — never! I want to go home,” 
she said, as she had said long ago in her childish mis- 
ery — “ I want to go home. I have been homesick all 
my life, and — and ” 

“ Well?” 

“ And I have never, never forgiven you since you 
took away my soap and my money — never! And I 
have never loved you — never ! ” 

“ Really?” 

“ Never. And you threw away the key to my work- 
box.” 


208 


The Making of Jane t 

“ And the rag-doll ? " 

“ Yes." 

“ And Mark Witting?" 

The girl turned her head away. 

“Well?" Mrs. Saunders said for the third time, 
her voice still holding the cold, low tone it had gained. 
“ And do you — do you really think that I will allow 
this ? That I will allow you to go home and proclaim 
me a tyrant? That I will allow my world to see that 
having had a girl from her childhood, I have not been 
able to inspire her with even common affection for one 
who has been more than a mother ? That I will allow 
people to say that under my care Mark Witting has 
been able to jilt you, and Laurence Creswick to pass 
you by ? " 

There was a hunted look in Jane’s eyes. 

“ Do you not see," Mrs. Saunders went on, “ that 
the only thing left for you to do, the only thing that 
will show Mark Witting that he has not hurt you, that 
will restore my confidence and your own self-respect, 
is for you to accept Laurence Creswick? Do you not 
know that the world will be very quick to say that both 
these men trifled with you? And if you refuse Lau- 
rence Creswick what will you do? No one else who 
has been attentive has been seriously attentive, and 
matrimony is the only way out of this snarl ; I can see 
no other." 

“ Let me go home." 

“ Run away ignominiously ? Have you no pride ? 
We have had a plain confession this afternoon, and 
you have insulted me liberally; has not that more 
209 


The Making of Jane 

than made up for what I did in telling Mark Witting 
of your dependence? Ought you not rather to thank 
me for unveiling him to you, and for showing you of 
what stuff your dream was made? Money was what 
he was after, and I knew it. Laurence Creswick is 
after you. Poor fool, he thinks you are all wings, so 
angelic do you seem to him, and is willing to serve any 
length of time if at the last he may win you. I vent- 
ured that no woman was worth such long toil, and 
he differed with me promptly. What more do you 
want than the unswerving, unquestioning devotion of 
a man who is not only rich, but well-born, well-looking, 
and upright — stupidly upright? Nor need you be in 
any haste ; he is willing to wait as patiently as a muz- 
zled beast! You ought to be proud of such a love; 
especially as one cannot be even reasonably sure that 
you deserve it. A girl who could be carried away 
with the charms of Mark Witting does not cause one 
to feel any enormous amount of confidence in either 
her judgment or her taste. And do you reflect that 
your father is getting old, that the burden of his family 
is almost more than he can now carry, without the 
weight of you added ? ” She ceased, and the silent 
girl, with her head turned away, was gazing out across 
the rolling hills, where exquisite vistas of fields, of 
peaceful orchards, passed unheeded, for her eyes looked 
like blind eyes, her lips were dumb. And the silence 
lasted until, arriving at home, they reached the upper 
hall, where their ways separated ; then Mrs. Saunders 
turned and said : 


210 


The Making of Jane 

“ Your dinner will be sent up to you, but I shall ex- 
pect you to go to the concert this evening, wearing 
your pink and silver, and I demand that this afternoon 
remain entirely between us.” 

And Jane went away swiftly to her room. 


2 1 1 


XIII 


“ Live — yet live — 

Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — ” 

T EN minutes before dinner Jane appeared in the 
drawing-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Saunders 
were sitting. Mrs. Saunders looked up quickly. 
“You are feeling better?” she said, with admirable 
ease. 

“ Quite well,” Jane answered. 

“Sick, Janey?” And in his turn Mr. Saunders 
looked up from his paper. 

“ Not at all,” the girl answered. “ Cousin only 
fancied that I looked worn.” And passing by Mrs. 
Saunders with a carelessness she had never shown be- 
fore, she paused in front of the small wood fire called 
for by the cool evening, and put her foot on the low 
fender, drawing up her filmy draperies out of danger. 

Mrs. Saunders drew a long breath softly between her 
teeth, and once more heard Mark Witting’ s warning — 
“ She will not stay in your hand for ever.” For the 
first time in her life the girl had disobeyed her absolute- 
ly. She had come down to dinner when told not to, and 
had not put on the pink and silver gown ; she must 
be careful, and she said slowly, “ Why not in pink and 
silver ? ” 


212 


The Making of Jane 

“ I thought that I had color enough to wear white,” 
was answered quietly. 

“Color enough?” Mr. Saunders put in. “Your 
cheeks are like peaches.” 

“Not too much, I hope?” And Jane turned to 
smile down on him. 

“ Not a bit — not a bit ; you’ll surely be the belle of the 
ball.” 

“ Concert,” Mrs. Saunders corrected, crisply. 

“ Only a phrase, my dear.” And Mr. Saunders went 
back to his paper and Mrs. Saunders to her book. 
Was the girl rouged? her thoughts ran; and what 
spirit she had! Mrs. Saunders’s eyes burned down 
on the inoffensive print like dull, red flames, but she 
read no word. The girl’s color was brilliant and she 
had no rouge — could not have gotten into her dress- 
ing-room since the drive. She took a good look at her 
as they went into the dining-room, and again under 
the electric lights of the ball-room, where the concert 
was to take place. She had never thought Jane any- 
thing more than pretty until this evening ; now she was 
positively handsome. Spirit, pride; how astonishing! 
and this last must be her lever ; she must use it, work 
on it, encourage it, and finally launch the girl as Mrs. 
Laurence Creswick. What a moment that would be! 
What joy to send those wedding-cards to Mark Wit- 
ting! What a debt she owed him! Her own eyes 
and color were brilliant that night, and it was re- 
marked that Mrs. Saunders grew handsomer with 
every year. 

“ Yes, and harder,” Miss Witting added. “ I won- 
der that girl has kept her mind.” 

213 


The Making of Jane 

“ To-night she looks like some dumb creature at 
bay/’ Mrs. Kennet answered, “ but handsomer than 
ever before. I wonder what is on foot.” 

Miss Witting grunted. “ It might be anything with 
Jane Saunders to the fore,” she said, while in her own 
mind she wondered if Mark had over-reached himself. 
It was true that she had sent him away on business, 
but he had been in a vile temper for some time before 
that. Did the girl care for him, and had Jane Saun- 
ders prevented the match? That would make her al- 
most ready to endow the girl, and she grunted again, 
or Mark. 

Jane, meanwhile, was behaving most carefully; the 
more so because she was as one on a rack. The words 
she had said that afternoon in her pain, the pathetic 
cry of her childhood — “ I want to go home ” — seemed 
to ring in her ears ; seemed to be repeating themselves 
over and over again in her heart; seemed to throb 
through all the music. Her whole life seemed to roll 
back on her ; all the years of it to that winter’s even- 
ing when she had been taken away out of the old nurs- 
ery, that for her was always filled with a red, warm 
glow ; where Jim, dead so long ago, was always playing ; 
where Tom was always a baby, and Marion still slept 
like the fairy princess. From there she had entered a 
narrow strait of life with never an unwatched moment. 
Homesick, troubled, bewildered by letters read to her 
that seemed to confirm Mrs. Saunders’s words that her 
father and mother were poor and struggling, letters 
that told the little child to be happy, to be appreciative 
of the kindness of her cousins, and of her advantages, 

214 


The Making of Jane 

she had gone from bewilderment to despair, from de- 
spair to hopeless, unquestioning obedience. There 
had been no other course open to her. And the flesh 
of Mrs. Saunders’s white hands was as hard as bone. 
She knew now that she had always been afraid, and 
she moved a little away from Mrs. Saunders’s side. A 
touch came on her gloved arm, but she did not move 
back again. 

“ Mr. Creswick is going to sing,” Mrs. Saunders 
whispered, smiling and pointing down to the pro- 
gramme; and the people about them — all people of 
their own world — saw the little smile and gesture. 

Jane raised her flowers to her face. Laurence Cres- 
wick had sent them. She put them away from her, 
and fixed her eyes coldly on the singer. A charity 
concert for the benefit of a “ Refuge ” ; and what would 
he sing? How ridiculous — how ridiculous! 

“ Love for a year, a month, a day — 

But alas, for the love that loves alway ! ” 

What an absurd song for the occasion ; how grim life 
was ; what a gruesome farce she was finding it. Why 
had she not a refuge? Why could she not go to her 
home ? What explanation could she give ? Her 
cousin had thrown away her rag-doll, her cousin had 
hard hands, her cousin had thrown away another rag- 
doll? 

“ What a delightful voice he has.” Mrs. Kennet, 
who was seated in front of them, had turned round 
and was speaking to Mrs. Saunders and looking at 
Jane. 


215 


The Making of Jane 

“ Delightful ! ” Mrs. Saunders answered. “ I hope 
he will give us another song.” 

Jane felt a pressure on her foot, and looked up. 
“ But what a ridiculous song to sing at a concert for a 
refuge,” she said, looking straight at Mrs. Kennet. 

“ What an extraordinary idea.” And Mrs. Saun- 
ders laughed a little uneasily. “ Ah ! he is going to 
sing again.” 

Mrs. Kennet turned away slowly, and Mrs. Saun- 
ders, raising her fan, spoke behind it to Jane. “ You 
had better be silent,” she said, “ than make such 
speeches as that.” 

Jane turned away. 

“ This is his last song,” Mrs. Saunders went on, still 
behind her fan, “ and if he joins us, you must behave 
properly.” 

Jane made no sign, but when Creswick approached, 
she drew her draperies aside to make room for him. 

“ How generous you are, Mr. Creswick ” — and Mrs. 
Saunders leaned across Jane — “ to give us two songs. 
There is to be dancing later, is there not ? ” 

“ Yes ; I came to ask Miss Ormonde if I might bring 
her a dancing card.” 

“ Do you feel well enough to stay, dear?” Mrs. 
Saunders asked. 

“ Yes.” And again Jane raised her flowers to her 
face. 

“ Then I will secure the card at once.” And Cres- 
wick went away. 

At this moment four young women were playing 
on two pianos, and Mrs. Saunders took advantage of 
210 


The Making of Jane 

the noise. “ Please remember/’ she said, “ that noth- 
ing you can do can possibly hurt me or Mark Witting, 
but only yourself ; and remember, also, that unless 
you are so peculiar as to wish your little story known, 
you had better be very careful. Laurence Creswick is 
your surest refuge from the world’s tongues ; make the 
best of him.” 

And Jane danced and danced; why not? She had 
loved Mark Witting; yes, she had given him her best 
of faith, and of trust, and of love ; there was no shame 
in that ; and she had believed in his love. She had be- 
lieved in him up to that very afternoon. Was it that 
afternoon ? was it not years ago ? She had called him 
ignoble, but she had not truly meant it, for she had had 
a feeling that he still cared for her ; but now she under- 
stood. He had never, never loved her! Mrs. Saun- 
ders had opened her eyes, had destroyed all her faith, 
all her illusions, had drained all the sweetness out of 
the little love-story — the little farce ! She shivered as 
she danced. 

“ Are you cold ? ” Creswick asked, making a motion 
as if to stop. 

“No; do not stop.” Then laughing a little: “It 
was only ‘ a rabbit ran over my grave,’ ” she said. 

“ What a dismal idea.” 

“ Which, the rabbit or the grave ? ” And she held 
her head back to look up at him. 

“ The combination, that your grave should be free 
to the rabbits. It makes one think of wild places, of 
barren places.” 

“ What matter ? We are dancing now. Let us dance, 
217 


The Making of Jane 

dance, dance ! This music is good enough to make a 
grave-stone skip, to make the rabbits stop and caper 
over my future resting-place instead of scurrying across 
it. I feel as if I should like to dance until I dropped.” 

And Mark had asked her to keep it all quiet from 
Mrs. Saunders, her thoughts ran on, keep it all from 
the world for a little while, their own secret, the sweeter 
the more secret. He had persuaded her to that. And 
he had been so careful, for her sake, he had declared. 
Attentive, but so quiet, so little to say to her in public, 
all for her sake ! And he had told it all to Mrs. Saun- 
ders — laid it all bare to Mrs. Saunders. He had never 
loved her, never loved her. 

On and on they flew, Creswick’s own pulses catching 
the excitement ; what ailed the girl ? At last he said : 
“ I think that Mrs. Saunders wants you.” 

“ Don't think it,” Jane answered, “ but take me into 
the refreshment-room.” 

Creswick obeyed, and found her a chair. “ What 
shall I bring you?” he asked, and Jane looked away 
from his eyes. 

Then from behind her came Mrs. Saunders’s low 
voice asking, “ Don’t you think it is time to go ? ” 

Jane did not answer, did not turn. 

“ I think my cousin is dancing too much,” Mrs. 
Saunders went on to Creswick. “ She has not been 
looking well of late, but she will not come home.” 

A puzzled look came on Creswick’s face. “ Perhaps 
some supper will be good for her just now,” he said. 

“ I am perfectly well,” Jane put in quietly, leaning 
back in her chair, “ and if y 0 u will bring me an ice, Mr. 

2i8 


The Making of Jane 

Creswick, that will be enough.” Since she had thrown 
down the gauntlet to Mrs. Saunders in the matter of 
the pink and silver gown, she felt absolutely defiant; 
she longed to dispute every point with her, to thwart 
her at every turn. It could not be possible that only 
that morning she had sat so humbly in the study to 
be lectured; that only that afternoon she had turned 
so obediently and gone to the house, leaving Mrs. Saun- 
ders to talk to Creswick and to find out from him all 
that she wanted to know. But she was not sorry for 
that bit of meekness; she was rather glad that it had 
all happened; it was better to know the whole truth, 
however bitter. 

“We will stay a little longer then,” Mrs. Saunders 
granted. “ I will wait for you in the ball-room.” 

And when at last Creswick put them into the car- 
riage, Mrs. Saunders, in the gloom of her own corner, 
had no word to say to the girl. Jane, however, still 
in the whirl and turmoil of her cruel awakening, that 
with every moment of thought grew more cruel, hardly 
knew whether her cousin was speaking or not. All 
the talk that evening had come to her mind as a con- 
fused and senseless jargon, and it was no better now. 
The rumbling of the wheels, the thud of the horses’ 
hoofs had as much sense as anything else, and the 
silence of her own room was a painful vacuum. She 
dismissed the maid at once, and locked her door. She 
tossed her flowers into the waste-basket, her filmy 
draperies on to a chair, and cast herself, face down- 
ward, on the bed. 

Hour by hour her eyes had been opening more clearly 
219 


The Making of Jane 

to the perspective of her past. Her childhood with 
Mrs. Saunders had been destitute of tenderness, her 
days barren of anything that could make a happy 
memory. All her life she had been schooling herself 
to a gratitude which she had never been able to feel. 
In the midst of all the luxury and careful duty done 
by her, she had been always hungry for a living, breath- 
ing love, a love that would have given her self-respect. 
She had no self-respect; she had been patronized all 
her life, had been made to feel herself a poor thing 
come of poverty-stricken parents. 

Now, suddenly and without warning, she had broken 
from all her moorings, and all the landmarks of her life 
had been swept away by a flood of indignation that, 
unknown to herself, had been gathering in her pent-up 
heart. Her whole nature was up in arms against Mrs. 
Saunders, against herself. Her cousin for views, for 
years of insinuations, herself for permitting them, for 
accepting everything from a person who held them. 
Her father and mother were not failures ; a large family 
and a small income did not mean beggary ; poverty was 
no disgrace, and she should have resented this long 
ago. And yet, what could she have done? Her life 
had been given into the hands of Mrs. Saunders ; she 
had had no right to be anything but grateful and obe- 
dient; and must she not believe that in her own way 
Mrs. Saunders loved her? 

Grateful! Love her! She had betrayed her; had 
trampled on every tenderest belief of her heart; and 
the sudden fury of outraged faith had swept her whole 
nature into revolt against her protectress. Grateful? 


220 


The Making of Jane 

How ignoble the state of things that had brought her 
to this position, how spiritless her acceptance of endless 
favors that had at last merged into an almost contempt- 
uous patronage. Patronage bred contempt far more 
surely than familiarity. Could she ever win to herself 
any respect for herself? Could she ever build up an 
individuality ? Must she always despise herself so ab- 
solutely? Could she not go out into the world and 
support herself? Women did it every day. Only 
that morning she had talked to Laurence Creswick 
about it. She had been wrought on by Mark Witting’s 
note; she had felt that she must change her environ- 
ment ; that she must get away from these associations 
that had become so dreadful. She had been so wound- 
ed, so humiliated, even then, and she had known only 
the half ! 

Even in the empty room she covered her face with 
her hands. She longed to cry out and tell all that grad- 
ually she was realizing of what she had missed, of 
what lately she had suffered. If she could only make 
herself independent, could find work, hard work, per- 
haps she could throw off this desperate humiliation 
of obligation to a woman whom she all but hated. 
Could she ever forget that cold voice, “ He thought 
you an heiress — my heiress.” All but hated? The 
only people whom she hated more were Mark Witting 
and herself. 

She got up and began walking about the room. She 
was to blame, not Mark Witting. It was not his fault 
that she had idealized him. If once she had had the 
sense to look at him with clear eyes, she would have 


221 


The Making of Jane 

realized that a man who was dancing attendance on 
an old woman, in the hope of inheriting her money, 
could not at the same time be the ideal she had set up. 
What a blight to fall on a harmless life, an unprotected 
head ! 

Fool! how could she live with herself, and all her 
life lay before her, her long life? Work, that must be 
her saving, not retreating to her home ; she would have 
to explain if she went there, to answer questions; she 
could not do that, not yet. Work was the thing ; work 
must be her salvation ; put all her strength into making 
this future a success. And if she succeeded, Mrs. 
Saunders would say it was due to her training. 

She went back to her bed. She must not think of 
Mrs. Saunders, of Mark Witting; it put desperation 
into her heart. Why had she not trained herself for 
something? She sighed wearily. Had she ever been 
her own mistress for one moment of her life? And 
what could she do ? first, how could she get away ? 

She sat up quickly and clasped her hands tightly, 
looking at the lamp with a wide, unwinking stare. 
Her candy-money, her birthday money, would not this 
help her ? It was so little ; she wrung her hands ; help 
her to what ? To run away ! 

She looked around as if startled, as if someone had 
said the words, “ Run away.” Run away ; why not ? 
Find a position. Her childish plans rushed over her; 
a maid like Fanny, a governess, like that first little gov- 
erness; but how? Answer advertisements. How 
could she manage this? She racked her brain until 
at last weariness conquered her misery, and she fell 
222 


The Making of Jane 

asleep where she was, leaving the lamp burning, and 
only awakened when the maid knocked in the morning. 

As Mrs. Saunders never appeared at breakfast, Mr. 
Saunders and Jane were free to bury themselves in 
their papers, which were only the papers of the even- 
ing before, but which suited Jane’s purposes perfectly 
as to the advertising columns. Maids, governesses, 
housekeepers, saleswomen, typewriters, stenographers ; 
column after column, and all must be experienced, all 
must be recommended. She had experience in noth- 
ing; she could give no references. If she could see 
the people and talk to them, she might win a place. 
But in order to see the people, she would have to be 
in New York. Would it not be wiser to wait until 
she returned to the city? She could manage it all so 
much more quietly there ; and meanwhile she could use 
a little of her allowance in advertising. She could 
advertise under her initials, to the care of the paper, 
so many of the advertisers seemed to do that, then the 
paper would forward the letter to her. All the mail 
passed through Mrs. Saunders’s hands. Simmons 
had brought her her letters of his own motion some- 
times, but she could not ask him to do it ; and a business 
letter in an unknown hand he would be sure to think 
an advertisement, and not bring to her. All day long 
she pondered, going through her duties in a perfunc- 
tory way, but with a steady quietness that kept in Mrs. 
Saunders’s mind Mark Witting’s warning; and after 
lunch she went up to her morning-room very thought- 
fully. 

All the excitement had gone out of the girl’s manner, 
223 


The Making of Jane 

and the misery and defiance of the evening before had 
given place to a preoccupied intentness that needed 
explanation. What was she contemplating? And the 
elder woman was uneasy. So carefully had she al- 
ways watched and ordered Jane, and Jane had been 
always so implicitly obedient, that she had not dreamed 
but that she knew everything of importance that came 
into the girl’s life. She had forgotten — perhaps she 
had never realized — that the searching wind of surveil- 
lance unavoidably causes one to draw the cloak of re- 
serve more and more closely about one. More than 
this, she had made the mistake of putting Jane’s un- 
failing observance of her wishes down to stupidity; 
had, in a measure, despised her for it, only to find her- 
self to be the dull, unseeing one. “ A fool,” she said 
to herself, “ an old fool ! ” And she struck her writ- 
ing-table with her closed hand, her white hand from 
which the child Jane had always shrunk. “ An old 
fool ! ” she repeated. Mark had stabbed her with the 
assurance that he had not soiled Jane’s ears with the 
knowledge of this ugly snarl ; he had taunted her with 
“ the last love of a woman ” ! She put her head down 
on the table. He had not believed that her heart had 
been empty; he had not realized that she had to be 
trampled on before the best in her would come out; 
and that in all her life he was the only person who had 
dominated her, who had put his foot on her neck. 
Wealth had brought her subservience. She paused in 
her thinking. Look back as she would, with all the 
new light of late developments to help her, she could 
not find one place where Jane had truckled to her, had 
224 


The Making of Jane 

flattered her. Jane had not been subservient; she had 
been obedient, and she realized now that this had 
angered her. She had never broken the girl’s spirit 
or will ; the girl had voluntarily put them aside, or, 
rather, had bent them through a sense of duty. “ Such 
a fool ! ” she whispered. She had been so sure that 
her husband and his family were trying to make some- 
thing, trying to gain money and favor from her. 

“ She had tried to be grateful,” the girl had said, 
“ but all was cancelled.” What had she meant ? What 
could she do? And to think that she had so quietly 
and so often refused Laurence Creswick while still 
holding his love; had made no show of it, apparently 
taking it as a matter of course. Plainly Creswick did 
not know that the girl loved Mark Witting. Yet, why 
should she be sure that even that knowledge would 
have quenched his hope and loyalty ? What power the 
girl had! and she found her respect for her growing 
with every minute. She rocked her head back and 
forth a little on the table. And Mark had declared the 
girl to be loyal; she had been miserable because of 
the deception, and he had gone away to give rest to her 
conscience. 

She rose quickly. He had not gone to save her good 
name, then ! and a flame seemed to light in her gloomy 
eyes. “ Such a fool ! ” she said again ; “ such a fool ! ” 

She began to walk about the room restlessly. A 
gulf lay open across her path; she must be careful. 
Her idiotic fury, her stupid blindness had betrayed 
her into the wildest folly. She should never have 
breathed even to the walls her knowledge of the affair 
225 


The Making of Jane 

between Jane and Mark Witting. Jane and Mark 
Witting. She stopped short in her walk and wrung 
her hands together above her head. “ Oh, my love — 
my love 1 ” she cried under her breath, and covered her 
face with her hands. “ Do not try to pose to me as a 
good woman/’ he had said, and the words had seemed 
to set her free. That he had pulled down all the veils, 
all pretences, had seemed a relief ; after that it was 
she who had gone forward ; he who had contradicted 
her, had ridiculed her. And she loved him. She did 
not spare herself in her arraignment, but when she 
lifted her face again, new lines seemed to have been 
drawn about her lips; and the anguish in her eyes 
should have made atonement for much. 

It seemed not to be the anguish of repentance, how- 
ever, for when once more she had resumed her seat, she 
said aloud : “ I lost my temper, and that is usually 
fatal.” What pure folly it had been. Perhaps it 
would have been wiser to have allowed the girl to 
marry Mark Witting. To let people have unhindered 
way was usually a sure revenge. Perhaps it would 
be wise to send Jane home, and ask for the second girl, 
Marion. She shook her head; her being sent home 
might be interpreted as punishment, she was afraid. 
Already she had risked too much. If Mark Witting 
should ever know of that drive from Mrs. Cumming’s ; 
she turned pale at the thought. No, Jane must not 
be sent home ; then there was the possibility that Cres- 
wick might catch the girl on the rebound. Again, to 
send the girl away would be to acknowledge failure; 
she had failed, but why publish it ? It would be wiser 
226 


The Making of Jane 

to wait, in the hope that pride would send the girl to 
Creswick. His love and money would give her lib- 
erty, would revenge her on Mark, would put ‘ cousin ’ 
out of her life. Anyone but Jane would count up all 
these advantages. 

Again she got up and moved restlessly about. j 
“ And yet I meant well,” she said aloud. “ I did mean 
well in taking the child.” Passing the window, she 
caught sight of Jane and Creswick going off with the 
golf clubs. She stopped. She had not been consult- 
ed ; she had not been even notified ; it was flat rebellion ! 
She walked toward the bell, as if to ring for a servant, 
then turned aside. There were times for blindness, 
and this was one. The girl had declared her independ- 
ence, but what more? The saving clause was Cres- 
wick’s presence and patience ; she must keep her hands 
off and let this do its work. 

How exasperating! and where was Mark Witting? 
near enough to watch her? She shivered a little; 
easy-going men like her husband could be terrible ; she 
had roused him once, long ago, and ever since, in her 
heart, she had been afraid of him. Why had he not 
beaten her, trampled upon her? she would have been 
a happier woman. A brute-beast she would have 
loved, or a sneering, scornful cynic like Mark. She 
struck her hands together. Mark, Mark, Mark! she 
would like to strangle him slowly ; would like to tor- 
ment him. He loved the girl, but that tortured her 
as well as him. She could not hurt him without hurt- 
ing herself, except by marrying Jane to Creswick ; that 
would be an almost mortal wound. 

227 


The Making of Jane 

He owed her money; that hurt him. Once more 
she covered her face with her hands; how he had 
fought her that time in town, and yet he had taken the 
money — because he loved Jane! She lifted her face; 
she need not brood over his love for the girl, she must 
accept that as a fact. She had heard it that day, when 
she looked into the arbor; she had seen it in his eyes 
as he returned her look, his angry, miserable, defiant 
eyes. She must realize clearly that he loved Jane, and 
work with that always in her calculations. Marry the 
girl to Creswick, that was the plan ; and another punish- 
ment would be through the money she had lent him ; 
he rebelled against that ; she had that hold over him ; 
she laughed a little. “ That ring in his nose,” she said 
aloud. 

She would not send Jane home; but sending for 
Marion to spend the winter was a good idea ; it would 
soothe Jane, and perhaps mend her own mistakes ; and 
in the spring she might send Jane home instead of 
Marion. It was worth thinking of. 

Creswick, too, was puzzled concerning Jane, espe- 
cially when one day, about a week after the concert, 
he came upon her in the post-office paying the post- 
master money and receiving a box-key in return. The 
color rushed into the girl’s face when she saw him, but 
she made no explanation during the walk home, and 
he wondered if Mrs. Saunders knew that the girl had 
a private box. Of course it was all right, he said to 
himself over and over again, still it was rather extraor- 
dinary. Indeed, everything had been queer since that 
walk he had taken with Jane — she had never gone with 
228 


The Making of Jane 

him again — and since Mrs. Cumming’s tea. Perhaps 
he had made the mischief by confessing his affairs to 
Mrs. Saunders, only that Jane had been queer before 
that, and since that Mrs. Saunders had been unusually 
cordial. 

Nor had Jane been so meek as heretofore ; she now 
boldly differed with Mrs. Saunders, and Mrs. Saun- 
ders permitted it — laughed at it — made light of it. 
She plainly was not coercing Jane; the tables had been 
turned in some way, and now the girl was hiring a 
post-office box! It was all right, of course, but what 
did it mean? And Witting seemed to have gone per- 
manently. Mrs. Saunders spoke of him occasionally ; 
Jane, never. Was he the man she had declared to be 
ignoble? What could he have said or done? She 
surely did not care for Witting, surely! Of course 
not ; but why did she want a private box, and why did 
she seem so preoccupied ? And she had lost her girlish 
frankness when with him, and was holding him at such 
a tremendous distance; and why did she seem now 
to live in a world of her own, and to have such a set 
purpose in all that she did? In the mornings, when 
he strolled over to the Saunders’s, he always found Jane 
studying, and sometimes quite simple things. At last 
one day he said : “ Do you purpose opening a school ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she answered, quietly, almost taking 
his breath away. 

“ Entering college, then ? ” 

She shook her head. “ You remember my talking 
one day,” looking up at him, “ about supporting my- 
self, and the dreadful conclusion I came to that I did 
229 


The Making of Jane 

not know how to do anything? Since then I have 
thought it would be wise to prepare myself to teach at 
least. I think that I could teach very little children.” 

“ Will Mrs. Saunders let you go ? ” 

“ She says not ; but — at all events there is no harm in 
being prepared, is there ? ” 

“ None in the world.” Then picking up one of the 
books, “ I might help you.” 

The color rushed into Jane’s face. “ Would you? ” 
she said eagerly, “ and — and then you could give me a 
reference.” She had lowered her voice as if afraid. 

“ Of course.” 

“And it would be just between you and me?” 

“ Mrs. Saunders could not object to so laudable an 
effort.” 

“ It is not her objection — ” Then Jane stopped. 
“ She likes you very much, indeed,” she finished after 
a moment. 

“ She is very amiable ; and if not against the wishes 
of anyone, we can study very nicely these idle morn- 
ings.” 

“ I am not sure about her wishes,” Jane answered, 
slowly, “ and I shall not ask her ; but you will be very 
kind to help me — the kindest friend I have ever had.” 

A smile flitted across Creswick’s lips hearing the em- 
phasis on “ friend,” and looking straight into the girl’s 
eyes, he said : “ What are friends made for but to 
help one another ? If you would tell me your difficul- 
ties, they should be sacred, and I might help you.” 

The tears rushed into the girl’s eyes, but she turned 
away her head quickly. “ Play school-master,” she 
230 


The Making of Jane 

said, with a quavering laugh, “ and when I need a refer- 
ence, let me come to you. Really, I don’t know any 
arithmetic at all.” She had winked her tears away by 
this, and looked up at him with shining eyes. 

“ Arithmetic, then ; can you say the multiplication 
table?” 

“ Seven and nine always worry me.” 

“ Very well; have it all ready for me when I come 
again, and do examples from every division in the first 
part of the book. You may know it all, of course, and 
this is only a preliminary canter to see what you can 
do. Of course you went to a fashionable school.” 

“ No ; I had governesses.” 

“ And so will have everything to learn.” 

“ I know French and German.” 

“ How are you in history ? ” 

“ Very weak.” 

“ I will go home and get some books, then.” And 
taking his hat, he went away. 

Something was wrong, very wrong, he pondered; 
and what was it? Perhaps she would tell him some 
day; meanwhile the lessons were an admirable idea. 
And two or three mornings out of every week found 
him and Jane really at work. Her eagerness, her in- 
tense earnestness puzzled him more than ever. She 
bent all her energies to the tasks he set her ; confessed 
her ignorance frankly, yet was continually surprising 
him with some odd corner knowledge that was totally 
unexpected. 

He was careful not to go to the arbor any oftener 
than usual, and Mrs. Saunders’s maid reporting faith- 

231 


The Making of Jane 

fully every few days that Mr. Creswick and Miss Jane 
were reading on the bench, or on the piazza, or in the 
parlor, as the weather demanded, Mrs. Saunders com- 
pelled herself to let what seemed “ well enough ” alone, 
and put off suggesting that Marion should come. 
Mark Witting being safely away, this constant inter- 
course looked favorable for Laurence Creswick. 
“ Calf-love ” did not often live or wound very deeply ; 
it was “ the last love,” as Mark had sneered. Cres- 
wick’s plans for winning the girl were excellent, under 
the circumstances, though not wise, as a rule of life, for 
lovers. Indeed, the only mistake had been her med- 
dling ; and her best plan now was to keep quiet. For 
this autumn she would not change their resort for Oc- 
tober, but remain where she was until they could return 
to town. She found herself strangely weary, strange- 
ly averse to movement; neither must Jane’s affairs be 
disturbed ; and whatever it was that she and Creswick 
were maundering over every morning, she would let 
them alone to work out their own salvation. Yes, she 
would give herself physical rest, at least ; give up for 
a time until it was necessary to take a fresh hold on life 
and the world. 

And to Jane life was a new thing. “ I’ve struck on 
a rock,” she said to herself, “ and have knocked a hole 
in my side ” — and she laid her hand on her heart, smil- 
ing a little — “ and the cold, bitter water of experience 
has rushed in ; has it put out all my fires, I wonder ? ” 
Her heart had been kept in cold storage, Mark had 
said; and when he laid his hand upon it, it had an- 
swered, as to the touch of a creator. He had frozen it 
232 


The Making of Jane 

again with equal facility. But now in place of love a 
purpose had come to her, and she was working with a 
will. She would make herself independent, she would 
build herself up ; and after achievement, she would win 
for herself some self-respect. Work, action, strife, if 
necessary, but no more submission, no more gratitude, 
no more love. Work was best. She remembered some 
words she had read — “ Men say crowns for foreheads, 
God says ‘ Sweat.’ ” God’s gift was best ; she would 
work ; and so occupied was she that she scarcely heed- 
ed the repose that had come into her days through the 
cessation of Mrs. Saunders’s exacting supervision. 
All that was different in her environment and treat- 
ment she put down to her own change of feeling; to 
her defiance of Mrs. Saunders, while Mr. Saunders was 
too much of a philosopher to ask questions about such 
a solid advantage as peace. 

So the weeks moved along with apparent quiet 
straight up to the time when the move to town for the 
winter was at hand ; then one day Jane experienced a 
sensation that, though hoped for, was unexpected, and 
was a decided shock. She had gone to the post-office 
to give up her box-key, when she found a letter. She 
looked at it a moment, as if afraid, then, slipping it 
quickly into the inside pocket of her coat, she glanced 
from side to side anxiously. It took only a moment 
to deliver the key to the post-master, then, going home, 
she shut herself into her room, locking the door. She 
took the letter out and laid it on the table, and a sudden 
terror came over her. What was this thing she was 
going to do? This common looking letter was a call 
233 


The Making of Jane 

to her; a letter that looked as if it should belong to a 
servant, might decide her future. She could not go 
to common people ; she could not ! How dared she go 
at all? How dared she go out from her carefully 
sheltered life into this unknown world ? She had 
never been permitted to think for herself; she was 
ignorant, timid, weak. 

She got up and put away her hat and coat, laid her 
gloves carefully in their box. She was all this, but she 
need not be silly as well. Then, with exaggerated de- 
liberation, she opened the letter, and read — 

“ J. O. In answer to your advertisement I write to 
ask if you will consider a position out of New York? 
If so, will you call on me as soon as possible? I shall 
require at least one good reference. 

“ (Mrs.) Margaret Fenser.” 

The peace of the weeks since her outbreak had 
calmed her ; the work with Creswick had absorbed her ; 
this call from the outer world, the possibility of which 
had faded into a dim chance, seemed to turn her whole 
life upside down by its unexpectedness, and frightened 
her. Her hands were trembling when she put the let- 
ter down — this letter that did not look in the least like 
the letter of a lady, that was not the letter of a lady — 
and repugnance was added to all the whirl of conflict- 
ing emotions which now possessed her. 

She had fought steadily against any thought of 
Mark Witting; the hurt was too deep for words, even 
with herself ; but now in this moment of decision the 


234 


The Making of Jane 

first thought was of him. To be out of New York was 
to be out of sight and hearing of him. It swayed her 
for a moment, then she put it aside ; she must not be so 
weak but that she could face that contingency. This 
must not influence her ; this move must be a matter of 
principle, not passion. 

To remain would be a virtual acceptance of Mrs. 
Saunders’s terms, which meant marriage with Lau- 
rence Creswick. A tremor went over her, then she 
sat still for a moment. Why could she not go home ? 
All her dreams had centred round that old nursery, her 
lost fairy-land where so long ago the “ trailing clouds 
of glory ” had been torn from her ere their rightful 
reign was done ; go back to where, perchance, she might 
yet find some fragments of her lost birthright of love 
and tenderness. 

The tears welled up and over, but she did not move ; 
this thing must be decided quietly. To go home to be 
a burden would be wrong; to go there only to come 
away again would be a useless struggle; indeed, it 
would be impossible. Her father would never allow 
her to go out into the world as a worker. Nor would 
they ever understand why she had left Mrs. Saunders, 
because they must never hear the story of all her lonely 
childhood. Let her parents hear the story of Mark 
Witting if Mrs. Saunders chose to tell it, but this other 
knowledge would be for them a bitter and lasting self- 
condemnation. 

She took a picture from a stand near by. What a 
strong, patient face ; she must deserve his respect ; but 
how careworn. “ ‘ Little to earn and many to keep,’ ” 
235 


The Making of Jane 

she whispered. “ Poor father.” And Jim, her dear- 
est playmate, who would have helped her father now, 
had been dead so long — so long. How worn and grave 
his face, how white his hair ; no, she must not let her- 
self add to that burden ; she must work. 

A decision reached, all excitement seemed to leave 
her, and very quietly she took up her pen and wrote — 

Mrs. Fenser: 

“ I am quite willing to go away from New York, and 
will see you on next Tuesday morning. I am unavoid- 
ably out of town until that time. 

“ Very truly, 

“ J. Ormonde.” 

That would do, and she would mail it immediately, 
for fear of reaction. She would see this woman, 
whether she took the position or not. 

“ This must be our last lesson,” she said to Creswick 
the next day. “ We are leaving on Monday morn- 
ing.” 

“ So Mrs. Saunders tells me ; but unless you are pres- 
ident of a college before the New Year, I don’t see 
why we may not have some sensible mornings this win- 
ter ; or will you have classes again ? ” 

“ No, there will be no classes,” Jane answered with 
the quiet decision she had acquired of late ; “ and the 
sensible mornings may be possible, but remember, you 

have promised to give me a good reference if I need 



one. 

“ Of course ; like this : * For probity and ability. 

Miss Ormonde has no equal ’ ” 

236 


The Making of Jane 

“ It must not be a joke,” Jane interrupted, gravely. 

“ You will not trust me with your plans? ” 

“ I trusted you that morning on the hill. I told you 
that I did not think it was honorable to stay with my 
cousin and yet have no intention of carrying out her 
views.” 

“ I see.” And Creswick looked deep into the fire. 
Mrs. Saunders’s views were matrimony, and he — he 
had made a mistake in talking to her that afternoon at 
Mrs. Cumming’s. 

“ And you will give me a really serious reference? ” 
Jane interrupted his thoughts. 

“Yes; and anything else under heaven that you can 
ask, if only ” 

“ Thank you,” she said quickly ; “ you will help me 
very much indeed.” 


237 


XIV 


“ Even so we leave behind, 

As, chartered by some unknown Powers 
We stem across the sea of life by night, 

The joys that were not for our use design’d ; — 

The friend for whom we had no natural right, 

The homes that were not destined to be ours.” 

I T was sleeting, and with all his training Simmons 
could not conceal his surprise when, on Tuesday 
morning, Jane told him to order a cab for her. It 
was a most unheard-of proceeding, and, in addition, 
her expression was so strange that almost he felt it 
his duty to report to Mrs. Saunders. This, however, 
would please Mrs. Saunders and hurt Miss Jane; and, 
reflecting that the cab would come from a stable where 
the family was well known, and that a word from him 
to the coachman would insure safety, he let her go 
with only a “Yes, Miss Jane,” when she said that if 
Mrs. Saunders asked for her she would be back in 
an hour. 

Jane had dressed herself in her simplest clothes, she 
had put on her oldest set of furs, and had provided 
herself with a written card, yet with all her effort Mrs. 
Fenser was decidedly surprised and a little over- 
whelmed at the apparition who came as the original 
of the advertisement. She looked expensive; there 
238 


The Making of Jane 

was about the girl a finish that meant the best things 
of this world; a repose that disconcerted Mrs. Fenser; 
and she came in a coupe, that, though not a private 
one, had evidently come from a very reserved stable. 
It had a mysterious look. 

“ It’s dreadful weather,” Mrs. Fenser began. 

“ Yes,” Jane answered, looking from the window 
as if she had not before observed the weather. 

“ I’m not in the city for long,” Mrs. Fenser went 
on, “ and I wanted good weather to go about in.” 

“When do you expect to leave?” 

“ I am not sure.” 

“And will you want me immediately?” 

“ It isn’t I who want you,” Mrs. Fenser answered, 
quickly, and a wave of relief swept over Jane. 

The hotel was one of which Jane had never heard, 
and though it seemed a respectable place, it had given 
her something of a shock. Then the woman herself 
was a little appalling. She looked to be a good wom- 
an, and in good circumstances, and her clothes were 
in the latest fashion, but the very first glance had made 
the girl almost ready to turn back. 

“ Last winter,” Mrs. Fenser went on, “ I was or- 
dered South for my health. I didn’t like the place 
the doctor sent me to, and I moved to another place 
in the same region of the country. It’s in the middle 
South, a little town, but I liked the people, and I prom- 
ised them that if they could raise the money I would 
select a teacher.” 

“ Yes.” 

“They are plain people, but they are kind people, 
239 


The Making of Jane 

farmers and the like. They make a difference down 
there between farmers and planters, you know.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, these are farmers, and they — a few of them 
— want something better for their children than the 
free school.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And I don’t think that you’ll do.” 

“ Why not? ” 

“ Because — well, you’d not be satisfied. You look 
as if you’d been accustomed to a good deal.” 

Jane looked down at her clothes. She had felt rather 
shabby in her present attire, and in consequence a lit- 
tle depressed, a sort of foretaste of the poverty she was 
courting. Now a momentary wish swept over her to 
take this woman home with her, take her into Mrs. 
Saunders’s presence just for a glance! It was only 
for a second, then she said : “ They want a teacher, 
and I am willing to teach them; I think that is the 
only question.” 

“And after they’ve paid your way down there, and 
you don’t like it, what then? ” 

Jane drew herself up a little. “ I don’t think that 
there is any question of my not fulfilling my agree- 
ment.” 

Mrs. Fenser, more puzzled than ever, asked for a 
reference. Jane drew from her muff a card-case, whose 
gold-mounted simplicity was exquisite, and from it a 
slip of paper bearing Laurence Creswick’s address. 
“ This is a gentleman under whom I have studied,” 
she said, “and he will satisfy you, I think, and I will 
240 


The Making of Jane 

call again on Saturday morning.” She rose, then 
added: “ If you are satisfied with my recommendation, 
when will you wish me to go? ” 

“ They are waiting for you, and the sooner you go 
the better,” Mrs. Fenser answered, while she studied 
the address. She had hoped for a city address, where 
she could have asked questions. “ Everything is ar- 
ranged,” she went on, “ and they will take anyone I 
send.” 

“And you will wish me to leave at once?” 

“ The minute I am satisfied about you.” 

“Very well; good-morning.” 

And Mrs. Fenser, watching from behind the win- 
dow curtain, decided from her air as she crossed the 
pavement and gave her orders to the coachman that 
Jane was decidedly somebody. 

Jane herself was a little breathless. She might have 
to leave on the next Monday, and she wondered how 
she would accomplish it. As they had just arrived, 
her trunks were still in her room; that would simplify 
matters a good deal. She would pack one trunk with 
her plainest things; pack all her finery into her other 
trunks, and hope that Mrs. Saunders would send them 
to her sisters. And she would not take anything that 
Mrs. Saunders had given her as presents, but all that 
her Cousin Henry had given her, especially such things 
as could, in case of necessity, be sold, and she shivered 
a little thinking of being so poor as that. 

She might have to go on Monday; she would have 
to go on Monday, for of course Laurence Creswick 
would answer promptly and favorably. She began to 
241 


The Making of Jane 

look out of the windows of the cab with a new-born 
love for the familiar streets; the ever-shifting crowd 
grew suddenly dear; the roar and the rush, the clang- 
ing bells, the thud of the horses’ hoofs was suddenly 
almost like music. She could telegraph Laurence 
Creswick not to give a favorable reference? 

Reaching home she wrote Creswick warning him of 
Mrs. Fenser’s coming letter, adding: “And will you 
kindly forbear to tell her anything about me save that 
I am respectable and able to teach? You have been 
very good to me, and, believe me, I appreciate it very 
deeply. Wherever I go I shall write and tell you about 
it. And do not have any qualms of conscience as to 
what you are doing, it is all right.” 

From this time Jane moved straight on to the ex- 
citing climax of Saturday morning, when she went to 
meet Mrs. Fenser. She had had a reassuring note 
from Creswick, and had no reasonable doubt but that 
she would be engaged. She would have to find out 
about trains, and would have to buy her own tickets, 
and check her own baggage. How would she manage 
it. Would it not be better and braver to tell Mrs. 
Saunders, and leave openly? She shook her head. 
Mrs. Saunders would never permit it; would never 
permit her to leave; would telegraph her father; would 
stop at nothing that would prevent this step. No, 
she must get away as quietly and as quickly as pos- 
sible; must take a morning train so as to leave before 
her cousin was up. Fortunately, Mrs. Saunders in- 
sisted on an early breakfast for Mr. Saunders and Jane, 
because of the servants, she declared, and because Mr. 
242 


The Making of Jane 

Saunders and Jane had nothing to do, and ought to 
get up early. This manifest injustice was now de- 
cidedly in Jane’s favor. The expressman should come 
for her trunk at an early hour, even if it had to be held 
somewhere until her departure, and she would tell 
Simmons that it was a trunk which she was sending 
South. A perfectly true untruth, and she blushed a 
little; if only she had not to tell the story to a servant! 
She would find out all about the trains from Mrs. Fen- 
ser, and see about tickets and the like on her way 
home. She would leave a note for Mrs. Saunders, en- 
closing a copy of the explanatory letter which she 
would mail to her father on Monday morning. She 
was determined as far as possible to save appearances 
for Mrs. Saunders. She had no wish to retaliate; her 
only desire was to save her self-respect, to get away. 

Mrs. Fenser was waiting for her; was perfectly sat- 
isfied with the recommendation which she had re- 
ceived, and was inclined to be very patronizing. She 
wrote down for Jane the route which she was to take, 
the probable expenses of the journey, and said that 
she had already written, and would telegraph as to the 
time of Jane’s arrival. That the salary would be fif- 
teen dollars a month, her board and washing and her 
ticket from New York. The other travelling expenses 
Miss Ormonde would have to pay for herself. Adding 
that as Jane had not said anything as to salary on her 
first visit, she did not suppose that money was as much 
of a consideration as a home. 

Money meant very little to Jane. All her life things 
had been provided for her without her even knowing 
243 


The Making of Jane 

the cost; so now she did not know whether the salary 
offered was the usual salary in such a case, but she 
did not say so, because having shown her ignorance 
in not asking about the remuneration to be received, 
she did not want to show any further signs of help- 
lessness. 

“A home and independence is more to me than 
money/’ she said, gravely and so quietly that Mrs. 
Fenser at once began to feel a regret that she had not 
tried to get her for less. Not that Mrs. Fenser lost 
or gained by the transaction, but only that it seemed 
wrong to her for one to pay any more than one was 
obliged to pay. Then reflecting that Jane would have 
to pay for the sleeping-car, she felt that she had not 
made such a bad bargain after all. 

Jane, meanwhile, wanting to ask a thousand ques- 
tions, was filled with regrets for her own ignorance. 
How helpless she was; how she had lived in a dream 
until that she would have to depend on the man at 
the ticket-office to instruct her. And now that she 
was put to it, she did not even know where the ticket- 
office was. She must go there, however, directly from 
Mrs. Fenser’s, and ask all the questions at once, so 
that on Monday morning she would know exactly 
what to do — any hitch might cause discovery. And 
walking boldly up to the cabman, she said: “ I wish 
to ask about routes to the South; drive me to the 
proper office,” and without a pause they trotted away 
briskly down the street, Jane sitting well back, afraid 
of being seen by some chance acquaintance. 

She was excited and very nervous, and when she 

244 


The Making of Jane 

reached the office she could scarcely ask her questions. 
Indeed, she scarcely knew what to ask, and ended by 
showing the clerk the route which Mrs. Fenser had 
written out for her, and saying that she wanted a ticket 
to that point. 

“ W e can sell you a ticket only to this point,” and 
the man put his pencil down on the next to the last 
name on the list. “ From there you take a local train. 
By leaving Monday morning you’ll get there Tuesday 
evening; ticket, twenty-three dollars; sleeping-car, six. 
You’ll have time to get your ticket on Monday morn- 
ing. Leave this side at ten-fifty.” 

“ This side?” 

“Yes, ferry. That man back there attends to bag- 
gage.” 

Jane was a little bewildered, but went to the man 
designated to ask further questions. Again she showed 
Mrs. Fenser’s directions. Yes, they would send for 
the trunk at nine o’clock on Monday morning; would 
check it at the house; she could pay now or then. 
She paid at once, and returning to the cab was driven 
home. 

Nine o’clock. Mrs. Saunders would be safe enough; 
but Mr. Saunders would be reading his papers in the 
study. He never left the house until just before his 
wife came down-stairs. Why could she not excuse 
herself from breakfast that morning? It would cause 
too many questions. Mr. Saunders would have to be 
told just what she had decided to tell Simmons; it 
was a trunk being sent South. They would think that 
it was going to her mother for the younger girls. Mrs. 
245 


The Making of Jane 

Saunders always sent Jane’s worn things down to be 
done over for her sisters. 

Already she felt tired and harassed with the un- 
usual sensations of deciding and acting for herself, 
while at the same time she was surprised that she 
could act for herself; she did not realize that the self- 
control of all her life had gone to make character, but 
only that she was doing more than she had thought 
herself capable of doing; as it was, the load of respon- 
sibility seemed terrible. How she got through Sun- 
day she scarcely knew, and in church she was in a 
state of nervous terror lest by some chance Mrs. Fen- 
ser should appear on the scene. But she got home 
safely, and declined to go to the afternoon service. 
Never before in her life had she ventured on such 
action; not even since her revolt, which had been 
passive rather than active; and the color deepened in 
Mrs. Saunders’s face. She refrained from words, but 
decided to send for Marion at once. Jane was becom- 
ing dangerously restive and must be kept quiet until 
the spring, then if she did not marry Laurence Cres- 
wick she could be sent home and Marion adopted. 
This would have no look of failure for Mrs. Saunders, 
or of hard treatment in the eyes of Mark Witting, and 
from the proceedings of Laurence Creswick and Jane 
up to the time when Jane returned to town Mrs. Saun- 
ders drew the conclusion that an engagement between 
them was only a matter of patience. 

So now, though angry, Mrs. Saunders swept away 
in silence to church, and Jane sat down to write her 
letters of explanation. She wrote and rewrote; she 
246 


The Making of Jane 

tore up many sheets of paper, but at last she found 
herself with three notes lying side by side on the desk 
before her. 

“ My dear Father: 

“ I am taking a step of which I am afraid you will 
not approve. I cannot rest any longer in useless idle- 
ness, and I am going out as a teacher. I have found 
the position myself, quite of my own motion, and by 
the time that this reaches you I shall be teaching my lit- 
tle school. I beg that you will believe that I am doing 
this from a good motive ; but if you must blame some- 
one, blame me only. Cousin Jane and Cousin Henry 
have not consented to my going, and have not written 
to you about it because I have not told them of my 
intention any sooner than I am telling you. As soon 
as I reach my destination I shall write to you. Be- 
lieve that I am true to the best that I know, dear 
father, and trust me. 

“ Your loving daughter, 

“ Jane.” 

“ My dear Cousin Henry: 

“ Do not blame anyone but me. I am running away 
to earn my own living. So much has been done for 
me that I am oppressed by my own uselessness. I 
am doing this entirely of myself, and please forgive 
me. All my life you have been so good to me; please 
be good once more and forgive me. I love you very 
much, and, if you will let me, I shall be so glad to 
write to you. Lovingly, 

“ Jane.” 

247 


The Making of Jane 

“ I am afraid that you will be very much shocked, 
Cousin, and that I will seem to have deceived you; 
but, as we have never been confidential, I do not feel 
that this is so much the case as it would be under 
other circumstances. I have had this in mind ever 
since the afternoon at Mrs. Cumming’s, and have 
planned it carefully. I am going out as a teacher to 
a respectable place in the South. I do not give you 
the address now for several reasons. I enclose a copy 
of the letter which I have sent to my father, so that 
you can see just what I have told him. You are at 
liberty to make what explanations you please; my 
explanation to you is that I cannot continue to be 
dependent on you after what has passed between us. 
You will find all my trunks packed to do with as you 
please. I have taken only my plainest and most worn 
things. 

“Jane Ormonde.” 

All Sunday evening she read, or seemed to read; 
all Sunday night she packed; sorting, arranging, de- 
stroying, pausing only when she came to the doll’s 
trunk. 

The nursery was still her room, and she knelt down 
now in front of the doll-house as before an altar where 
much had been sacrificed. She had taken up the lit- 
tle trunk that had been her childhood’s coffer to empty 
it, when the dead eyes of the staring dolls seemed to fix 
her. Horrid shams they had seemed to her when com- 
pared with her home play. There the dolls had slept 
in the real trundle-beds; had sat in the children’s real 
248 


The Making of Jane 

little chairs about the big, real nursery fire; had swung 
in the trees and vines, just as the children did; had 
helped to cook when they played camp out in the big 
pine woods, and Mawm Elsie had gathered them up 
just as carefully as she had the children before they 
journeyed back to the house. Those rag effigies had 
seemed real; these dolls had seemed shams, and their 
house, and furniture, and painted fireplaces were all 
shams, and her childish heart had rebelled against 
them. Now they seemed to look at her reproachfully, 
and to her astonishment she found that she was look- 
ing at them regretfully. So often in her homesick 
misery she had sat there; so often in her loneliness 
she had gazed at them that the strongest associations 
of her life, she found now, were wrapped around that 
despised doll-house — that row of stark images. The 
shallow little apartments seemed to be overcrowded 
with regrets, with resolutions, with renunciations; her 
childish resolutions to run away were jostling her 
childish longings for home; were in their turn being 
pushed out of the way by her childish despair and 
renunciation. 

Once more those resolutions had come to life; were 
this time to be carried out, and she had come for her 
childish store to help her. Almost it seemed as if the 
dolls, the furniture, the very kitchen pots and pans 
would rise and speak when she was gone; would tell 
Mrs. Saunders all the pathetic tragedy of the child’s 
empty life. The tears came, and she was shaken by 
a sob. She started up, this would not do, and she 
walked quickly to her writing-table where she emptied 
249 


The Making of Jane 

the contents of the doll’s trunk. A few articles of 
clothing belonging to the mother of the doll family, 
then the little purse which her Cousin Henry had 
given her to comfort her on the day of Jim’s death. 
The blankness of that day, the misery, the mystery; 
but did she know much more now, was she suffering 
much less? 

She crowded the doll’s clothes back into the trunk; 
she had no time to think, to remember; she would 
have no time to sleep, and the maid calling her at the 
usual time the next morning found her already dressed. 

“ I wish you to leave my room untouched,” she said, 
“ until I come back.” 

The girl vanished, and Jane went swiftly down to 
buy her ticket, returning in time for breakfast. Sim- 
mons looked at her curiously as he let her in, but he 
held his peace. She poured out Mr. Saunders’s coffee 
with her hat on, explaining that she was going out 
immediately after breakfast, and was up-stairs when 
Simmons came to announce that a man had come for 
a trunk. 

“ Yes, it is to go South,” she said; “ send him up. 
As it is not very heavy,” she went on, “ he will not 
need any help,” and there was a deprecating look be- 
hind the light of excitement shining in the pretty eyes 
that touched the heart of the old servant, who had 
watched the girl from her childhood. Years ago he 
had reduced Mrs. Saunders to a proper appreciation 
of himself and his rights, and perhaps Miss Jane was 
about to do the same thing, perhaps some day even 
Mr. Saunders would do it. This thought made him 
250 


The Making of Jane 

once more hold his peace, not only so, but on passing 
the door of the study, where Mr. Saunders was read- 
ing the paper, he discreetly closed it, and further 
effaced himself by retiring to the pantry, so that Jane, 
with her bag clumsily concealed by a wrap thrown 
over her arm, left the house, as she thought, totally 
unsuspected. 

Later, Simmons found two notes in the letter-box, 
and at lunch Mrs. Saunders said: “As Jane insisted 
on going home, I am glad that she has gone so early 
in the season, before I have sent out my cards; and 
just as Marion is coming on to me, it is fortunate,” 
and she helped herself largely to the cold chicken 
which Simmons handed her. 

Mr. Saunders did not answer, nor did he eat his 
lunch, nor did he come home to his dinner, leaving 
word with Simmons that he would dine at the club 
and go to the country early in the morning. It seemed 
a simple message, but Mrs. Saunders trembled uncon- 
trollably when Simmons left her. Mark Witting be- 
longed to that club, and if he were in town? She must 
take something to steady her nerves, for there was 
much to do. 

In a cab she went to the telegraph office, where she 
spent some time, then home again to write voluminous 
letters. Every sound seemed to startle her, but the 
next day passed quietly. The third, however, brought 
a card, and though she turned her back as if to catch 
the light on it, Simmons could see the deadly pallor 
that spread over her face. 

She entered the drawing-room slowly, closing the 
251 


The Making of Jane 

door behind her. No greetings were said, but there 
was a long look, on his side of suspicion, on her side 
of deprecation. “ The girl went of her own accord,” 
she said at last. “ How did you hear? ” 

“ That does not matter,” Mark answered ; “ I heard, 
and I came to see, and, seeing you, I believe that she 
went of her own accord,” then he turned on his heel. 
“ Will you not stop a moment? ” 

“ No.” 

Mrs. Saunders was calmer now, and her eyes were 
regaining their usual expression. 

“Jane’s younger sister is coming to me,” she said; 
“ I had a telegram yesterday. You will call? ” 

Mark turned to look at her. “ I stay in town be- 
cause I am going to try to work,” he answered, “ to 
pay my debts.” 

“ From the pictures we have had,” Mrs. Saunders 
went on, “ the girl is pretty. I feel quite excited about 
it. Dine with us next Monday, the usual hour; why 
give the world cause for talk? ” 

Mark stood still thinking. “ No,” he said at last, 
“ the world must not be set talking about Jane,” and 
without another look he left her. 


2 52 


XV 


“ I felt begin 


The Judgment-Day ; to retrocede 
Was too late now. ‘ In very deed.* 

(I uttered to myself) * that Day ! * 

The intuition burned away 
All darkness from my spirit too ; 

There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew, 

Choosing the world. The choice was made ; 

And naked and disguiseless stayed, 

And unevadable the fact.” 

EVER mind how true our aim, nor how high 



1 M the principle by which we have been moved, 
there comes after every great decision in life an up- 
heaval of doubt. Perhaps we have acted only after 
carefully weighing and analyzing each motive; after 
carefully considering every possible consequence; go- 
ing slowly, and guarding each step; but even so, to 
our secretly appalled eyes each onward movement 
seems to reveal a new point of view, a new light, an 
unexpected shadow, and the demoralizing doubts 
crowd about us, thrusting cold questions in between 
each flash of hope, and chilling the very marrow of 
our bones. “ After all,” we say, “ how much we have 
staked, how reckless we have been ! ” And our poor 
humanity can only draw the mantle of outward as- 


253 


The Making of Jane 

surance more close, trying to hide from the world at 
least the gnawing doubts. 

So it was on a dreary November day in the 
Southern hill-country, Jane, in a state of absolute de- 
moralization, stood at the window of a small detached 
building waiting for her scholars to gather, and star- 
ing out on surroundings that in the autumn grayness 
looked, to say the least, dismal. All the nameless ter- 
rors that had beset her journey from the moment when 
she closed the door of her home in New York, volun- 
tarily shutting herself out from all she knew, thrusting 
herself, alone and unprotected, into the world, all these 
were as nothing compared with the doubts that now 
assailed her. 

There had been terrors of being absolutely alone; 
terrors of being lost; terrors of being found; terrors 
of losing her money, her tickets, her check; terrors of 
being in the wrong sleeper, of being spoken to, of 
being forgotten; terrors of being put out at a small 
junction in the dusk of a drizzling winter’s evening. 
Small terrors that shut out for the time being the 
questions of real import — what she had left, and what 
she would find. Still these formless fears born of ig- 
norance and a sheltered life were desperately real, and 
taught her surely that dreadful lesson of how a life- 
time can be crowded into a few hours. All of these 
shadows had now assumed their proper place in the 
perspective of experience, and a new set of fears, which 
took the less answerable form of doubts, assailed her. 

It had been a tragic moment when she closed the 
door of her home behind her, cutting her past life off 

254 


The Making of Jane 

so sharply, so decisively, and the sound of that softly 
clicking latch, that moved so easily and fastened so 
surely, had seemed to echo all up and down the street. 
She had paused for a moment, almost hoping that 
Simmons would come out to investigate, or that Mr. 
Saunders would come out on his way to the club. 
Then a ridiculous panic of losing her trunk, of being 
left, had seized her, and she had rushed away to meet 
innumerable other fears that now fell back into noth- 
ingness as compared with the shutting of that door. 
The dark green color of it came vividly before her; 
the shining brass knobs; the great door-mat, with the 
number of the house woven in; the small brass circle 
where the real latch was that had clicked so fatefully! 
She heard it now, it seemed to echo all about her, 
until she asked herself if she were perfectly sane. 

Had she not been a fool to come away? Mrs. Saun- 
ders had trampled on her all her life; at the last had 
treated her cruelly. As far as she could see, Mrs. 
Saunders had only managed her as she managed every- 
one else, even her own husband. Mrs. Saunders had 
seen that she was being deceived by a man unworthy 
of trust; had unveiled him; ought she not to be grate- 
ful to Mrs. Saunders? 

And this life that she had elected to live; this in- 
dividuality and self-respect that she had determined 
to build up; what would it amount to? Was it worth 
the confusion and distress which she knew that she 
had caused? The distress to her father and mother, 
the confusion and mortification to the Saunders who 
had done everything for her? She ought to go back 
255 


The Making of Jane 

to them on her knees and ask pardon. But even that 
she could not do; the shutting of that door had been 
irrevocable. Irrevocable — the word filled her with a 
sense of despair that was overpowering. The words 
“ too late ” were tragic in a way, but they had a sense 
of accident about them; “ irrevocable ” had a sense of 
blunder, of final judgment, of a sorrowful great Angel 
that stood with flaming sword to guard forever the 
path one had left. Was there any suffering in life 
more dreadful than this terrible word expressed? 

She must put it aside; to look back was madness. 
The only hope was to go on, to stand to the position 
she had taken. She must still know positively that 
Mrs. Saunders was a tyrant; she must never forget 
that the flesh of Mrs. Saunders’s hands was as firm 
and as hard as bone; she must remember the money, 
the soap, the rag-doll! How absurd! And Creswick 
should have remonstrated with her. 

She turned away from the window restlessly, and 
went to another. From each one the prospect was 
the same. Tall, bare trees dripping with the fine mist 
and tossing wildly in the wind; the ground covered 
with fallen leaves, sodden and wet, packed down by 
the rain. In front, a stony road going down the hill 
and soon becoming the main street of the town. To 
one side, and a little back from the small building, a 
large, old-fashioned house surrounded by the never- 
failing piazza of the region. From the front steps a 
bricked walk down to the gate, and from the same 
front steps a little path, a mere line over the grass, to 
this small detached building which was called the 
256 


The Making of Jane 

“ Office,” which was the school-room, the scene of 
Jane's labors, and now of her bitter self-communings. 

She had arrived the night before in a pouring rain; 
had been met by a fatherly man who had brought her 
to his home, where his wife and children had given 
her a welcome that was composed of kindly cordiality 
and unfeigned astonishment. The husband and father 
had seen only a handsome girl who was different from 
what he had been led to expect; the wife saw a girl 
who looked strangely like a very fine lady. What had 
Mrs. Fenser been thinking of! She could not give 
orders or even advice to this teacher, and how would 
the other mothers who were to share the expenses like 
this type? And in the memory of the housewife the 
room prepared for the stranger seemed to grow big- 
ger and more barren with every step that they took 
toward it. The lamp she carried made only an oasis 
of light where she put it down on the corner of the 
old-fashioned dressing-table; their footsteps resounded 
forlornly on the bare floor as they left the bit of car- 
pet beside the bed and made their way to the other 
bit of carpet in front of the fireplace, and the big 
tongs lapped its legs exasperatingly as she tried to 
push the fire into a blaze. 

She laughed a little nervously as she wrestled with 
them, and Jane had said: “I am so glad to have an 
open fire in my room; it is beautiful.” 

Her words seemed to right the tongs, and Mrs. 
Dunlap pushed up the fire triumphantly as she an- 
swered: “ Yes, we are old-fashioned, and love old- 
fashioned things. My husband would be lost if any- 
257 


The Making of Jane 

thing were changed, and so would I be; and it’s just 
as well,” she had added, looking up at Jane with an 
effort that made her words seem a little bit defiant, 
“ for we couldn’t have anything different if we tried. 
We are content, Miss Ormonde, and we hope that 
you will be.” 

“ I am sure that I shall be,” Jane had answered, 
confidently; then Mrs. Dunlap had helped her take off 
her damp coat, the satin lining of which had given her 
a turn, and had put her hat away on a shelf in a cav- 
ernous closet. She had opened Jane’s bag for her also, 
and had looked with some dismay on the shining con- 
tents. This young woman was mysterious; with such 
evidences of wealth why did she undertake a little 
country school? For to Mrs. Dunlap a satin lining 
and silver brushes seemed to mean untold wealth, 
almost wicked wealth, and surreptitiously she had ex- 
amined her guest’s face. That was all right, she 
thought, but some things about her were strange. 
This was not at all the kind of teacher that Mrs. Fen- 
ser had promised to send, and she had gone down- 
stairs to talk it over with her husband, telling Jane 
that her daughter Nannie would come for her when 
supper was ready. 

The clean, unpretentious simplicity had pleased Jane, 
and after having done what she could without her 
trunk to remove the stains of travel, she had sat down 
in front of the fire to wait. But not even then had the 
real and serious questions of her actions come to her. 
Her first thought had been that her father and mother 
would just be hearing of her flight, and in New York 
258 


The Making of Jane 

they would be getting ready for dinner. Three days 
ago, at this very hour, she had been getting ready 
for dinner! 

She had looked about her vaguely. Was it not all 
a dream? would she not soon awaken to find the maid 
at her bedside, saying, “ Miss Jane, will you please get 
up and go to the early service, Mrs. Saunders says 
that she does not like the pew to be empty always ”? 
What would Mrs. Saunders think if she could see her 
now? — or Laurence Creswick, or Mark Witting! She 
took up the tongs and made a lunge at the fire; the 
wrong log tumbled down, and the tongs pinched her 
fingers. She got up hastily and went to the basin- 
stand. Just then a timid knock had sounded on the 
door, and a little girl coming in, said softly that sup- 
per was ready. 

“ Are you Nannie? ” Jane had asked. 

“ Yes, ma’am, and mother says you’d better shut 
your door to keep your room warm, and please to see 
if your fire’s safe.” 

“ Do you think it safe, Nannie?” 

“ Not very,” and picking up the big tongs the child 
pushed the logs together deftly, then looked up at 
Jane, her big eyes shining out from between the two 
tight plaits of hair that adorned each temple. 

“ That’s very nice,” Jane commented, then taking 
the child’s rough little hand in hers, she had gone 
with her down-stairs. There was quite a breeze in 
the hall and down the stairway, and she could hear 
the dismal pour of the rain outside; but a big fire 
sparkled in the dining-room, and the other children, 
259 


The Making of Jane 

looking awe-stricken and sleek, stood silently, each 
behind its chair; Mr. Dunlap mumbled a grace diffi- 
dently, and they sat down to a table literally loaded 
with food. The conversation had been more or less 
constrained, Mrs. Dunlap and Jane doing all of it, and 
the arrival of the trunk in a farm wagon was a great 
relief, for Mr. Dunlap, going out to give orders to the 
negroes, the children had followed to watch operations. 

This had ended the last of Jane’s terrors. She had 
arrived safely, and her trunk was successfully landed 
and under her own eye; she had not experienced any 
disagreeable occurrence, nor had she lost anything, 
and so relieved was she to have reached the haven for 
which she had embarked that she had gone to her bed 
and to sleep without one doubt as to the wisdom or 
righteousness of her course. 

All this, the arrival and the subsequent peace of 
mind, seemed now to be weeks away; her breakfast, 
eaten by lamp-light, seemed days ago; the early din- 
ner which she had just finished marked only the 
hour of twelve, and what should she do with the 
appalling amount of time that seemed to be heaping 
up on her hands. All the morning, between nine 
and twelve, she had been teaching, or rather trying 
to find out what the children knew. Ten children, 
ranging from six to twelve, and so far exceedingly 
well-behaved — three little Dunlaps, three little Tom- 
kins, two little Millers, one little Wheeler, and one 
child named Beaton. Had she been as quiet as these 
children? When Mrs. Saunders took her had she been 
as unresponsive? As she remembered herself, she had 
260 


The Making of Jane 

teemed with dreams and longings. Were these chil- 
dren like that and afraid to show it? Perhaps out- 
wardly she had been as still and as dumb, and Mrs. 
Saunders had not seen any deeper, and had not found 
her interesting — had kept her from a sense of duty. 

Perhaps, after all, it was her cousin who had needed 
sympathy and pity through all these years. To be 
hampered always by an unresponsive, silent creature, 
who did everything from a sense of duty; who had 
never forgotten the loss of her few possessions. But 
even now, under all its load of doubt, her heart swelled 
at the memory of that far-off, lonely child. She had 
been terribly homesick, and doubtless sullen, and per- 
haps very troublesome to Mrs. Saunders. And now 
what distress and confusion she had caused! For 
even if they did not love her — and she knew perfectly 
well that Mr. Saunders did love her — think of their 
anxiety as to her whereabouts; as to her fitness to 
judge of people; as to her ignorance of so much that 
one ought to know before setting forth alone. She 
had been cruel! 

She would write to Mrs. Saunders — to everybody — 
this very afternoon. She had found that her own name 
and the name of the town would be sufficient, as let- 
ters were not delivered. She would not be obliged to 
give Mr. Dunlap’s name, and Mrs. Saunders could not 
write to anyone. And it would be something to do 
to go to the post-office every morning before school; 
those long hours which had seemed like half a day 
would be very well spent in going after the letters that 
came in the evening on the train, just as she had come. 
261 


The Making of Jane 

She did wonder a little that Mr. Dunlap did not go 
for the letters in the evening, but he did not, and she 
would have to go for her own in the morning. 

Perhaps she ought to telegraph. Letters were so 
slow, and they had already suffered for thirty-six hours 
and more. What an idiot she was! The moment school 
was over she would run down and send telegrams to 
everyone. She ought to have done it the night be- 
fore; of course no one would ever forgive her — they 
ought not. She actually deserved punishment, she 
who had looked on herself almost as an escaped mar- 
tyr; had been afraid that something would be done 
to detain her or to turn her back. She had esteemed 
herself so valuable, and all the while she had been a 
burden, and as soon as they were assured of her safety 
her absence would be a relief. 

The moment that school was over she would send 
the telegrams. Was there ever such an idiot? and 
again she moved about impatiently. Would the chil- 
dren never finish their lunch? — she must get those 
telegrams off. Fortunately it was clearing. 

And this life that she had come to, what was there 
in it; what future? To vegetate here in this little 
country town on fifteen dollars a month. And she 
must be very careful of her clothes, for in unpacking 
that morning she seemed to have brought very few, 
and yet she had brought everything that had seemed 
to her to be plain and substantial. At all events, the 
large trunks of things which she had left would be a 
great thing for her younger sisters; that small good 
would come out of her flight — that is, if Mrs. Saunders 
262 


The Making of Jane 

would do with them as she had always done with 
Jane’s worn things. And another thing, she was 
nearer to her home now than she had ever been be- 
fore; her heart leaped; she drew her hand slowly 
across her eyes. Beyond the dark clouds of doubt a 
little light of dawn began to creep up, a faint tinge 
and glow of soft color that slowly but surely enlight- 
ened the dreary day. A brand-new realization began 
to take possession of her, almost bewildering her. 

She had been so much absorbed by her wrongs, by 
her preparations to escape, by the terrors of her jour- 
ney, by her doubts, that no thought of results had 
come to her until this moment. Now for the first 
time she realized that she had set herself free — free! 
She could go to her own home if she wished! A sort 
of exhilaration took possession of her, a grand reac- 
tion. Free — think of it! — free to come and go; free 
to be poor, to starve if she liked. All the blood in her 
body seemed to be dancing; what a wonderful dis- 
covery she had made; what a marvellous thing she 
had done! 

All her life, whenever she had been placed in any 
position, if it were only sitting in a chair, she had been 
obliged to stay there until someone had been pleased 
to give her permission to move; now it was all 
changed, she belonged to herself — she was free! She 
had done wrong, perhaps had done Mrs. Saunders in- 
justice; nevertheless, she was almost compelled to sing 
with joy. The possible sending home of her trunks 
was nothing, other wonderful good was emerging from 
the move she had made; the wrong was not, could 
263 


The Making of Jane 

not possibly be, in the step she had taken, but only 
in the way in which she had taken it. Her spirits con- 
tinued to rise, and when the afternoon session was 
over she asked Mrs. Dunlap if, as it was no longer 
raining, the children could go with her to the telegraph- 
office. All the children seemed to have to go home 
in the same direction, and all were wild to escort the 
new teacher, all except little Beaton, her home was 
farther out in the country, and her father always sent 
for her. 

“ Is it very far to your home? ” Jane asked. 

“ Not very.” 

“Then we will walk home with you first.” 

The child took hold of Jane’s wrist with both hands. 
“ I’d like to go to the telegraph-office,” she whispered. 

“ Do you think that she may,” Jane asked, “ if we 
take her home afterward? ” 

“They’ll be with you all the time,” Mrs. Dunlap 
answered; “yes, I’ll tell the servant.” 

It was down-hill all the way, and Jane walking 
briskly, the children skipped and trotted about her, 
and the towns-people they passed stared. Jane was 
a new sensation, and of course a teacher coming all 
the way from New York was much talked about in 
advance. Up to this time the town had not acknowl- 
edged that there were any social distinctions; and if 
some had looked down on some others, no one had 
ever acknowledged that they looked up, at least not 
since the Civil War had reduced them all to the same 
financial plane. But now a change had crept in, and 
the people who in secret had always looked down had 
264 


The Making of Jane 

drawn together and had taken their children from the 
public school. They had always wanted to do it, they 
said, but were only now financially able. And the re- 
tort came quickly that the financial ability was due to 
Ned Beaton; and to this there seemed to be no definite 
answer. 

So the murmurs had crept about the town, and the 
people waited with much curiosity to see the teacher 
whom Mrs. Fenser would send; Mrs. Fenser herself 
having caused much comment as being able to spend 
the winter at the hotel and being able to dress as no 
one in Stony Ridge had ever been seen to dress. Un- 
conscious of all this, Jane with her little troop went 
through the town to the railway station, which was 
on the other side with the post-office and the tele- 
graph-office, and where she sent away her messages 
as quickly as possible. “Arrived safely; will write.” 
Sending one to Mrs. Saunders, one to her father, and, 
after a moment’s thought, one to Laurence Creswick 
— as he had helped her away, he would be anxious. 
It was the only atonement she could make, these tele- 
grams and — success! She must succeed, she would 
succeed, there was no middle ground for her now. 

The excitement that had taken hold of her was vent- 
ing itself in the nearest thing — laughter with the chil- 
dren. She was young, she was strong, she was free. 
She would have liked to run races with them, and she 
laughed still more at the thought of the teacher run- 
ning races through the town ! Perhaps when they got 
out to the country once more, beyond the Dunlaps, 
then she could have a little run. She had had so few 
265 


The Making of Jane 

runs in her life; reckless runs, without any thought 
of onlookers or of propriety ; and never without a maid 
to say, “ Mind your dress, Miss Jane.” What a long 
list of interfering maids she could remember. 

Back through the town they went, Jane looking 
about her curiously, and as, on their return trip, the 
children reaching their respective corners turned off, 
watching them until they were out of sight. The chil- 
dren had grown quite friendly with her by this time, 
beginning by dubbing her “ Miss Jane,” and by asking 
her all sorts of questions. At last Nannie said: 

“ Mother says you’re rich, Miss Jane, ’cause you’ve 
got silver brushes.” 

“ You must not tell what your mother says,” Jane 
corrected. 

“ My mummy had silver brushes,” Tena Beaton 
put in, “but I don’t know where they are, I don’t 
know — ” then she paused and looked up at Jane. She 
was a frail little creature, with hands like bird-claws, 
and beseeching eyes that at a moment’s notice looked 
terrified. 

“ Many, many people have silver brushes,” Jane an- 
swered; “ it is the fashion; it does not mean anything. 
It’s much nicer to live in the country than to have 
silver brushes.” They were climbing the long street 
that would take them to their home on the hill-top, 
and beyond into the country where Tena Beaton lived. 
“ And when we get out of the town,” Jane went on, 
“ perhaps we’ll run some races.” 

“ You, too? ” the children cried. 

“ Yes, and we’ll be so hungry that we’ll eat up all 
266 


The Making of Jane 

the supper, and so tired that we’ll go straight to bed 
and to sleep.” 

“ I wish I could come and live with you,” and Tena 
looked up longingly. 

“ You will come to school every day, and often we 
will bring you home,” Jane said, and clasped the little 
hand she held more closely. 

They had reached the top of the street by this, and 
passing the Dunlap’s were out in the open country. 
A brisk wind was blowing, drying up the wet world, 
and driving the sullen clouds before it. Far down in 
the west there was a pale-green rift in the gray, long 
and narrow, that more and more glowed into burning 
gold as the sun, descending, neared it. 

“Look! ” Jane cried, “yonder is a big hole in the 
sky, see? The wind has torn it for the sun, and 
presently the sun will look through. Maybe he will 
see us and wink! ” 

The children were breathless. 

“ Shut your eyes tight,” Jane went on, setting the 
example, “ and see who will feel the sun first.” 

Every eye closed to the extent of wrinkling all the 
little faces. There was a tense silence; a blaze of red 
sunlight that glorified the gray, and a cry of childish 
trebles — “He’s winking — he’s winking!” 

“ And now we’ll have a race,” and picking up her 
skirts, Jane sped away. On and on she went against 
the bracing wind, losing gradually the sound of the 
children’s feet. Suddenly the road ran into the shadow 
of a wood. The girl stopped abruptly. It was so 
dark, it must be later than she had thought, and she 
267 


The Making of Jane 

had left her watch in the school-room! Perhaps they 
had passed the Beaton place. She was not really fit 
to take care of herself, much less these children. Here 
they came, poor little souls. Joey Dunlap first, then 
Nannie, and Mamie, and Tena, all of them breathless. 

“How fast you can run!” and Joey looked up in 
admiration. “ I didn’t know ladies could run.” 

“ And how’d you know that this was Mr. Beaton’s 
place?” Nannie asked next. Then once more Tena 
seized her hand. 

“ Is this Mr. Beaton’s place? ” and Jane looked over 
the old picket fence gray with lichens, into the woods 
beyond. 

“ Yes,” Tena answered, “ but it’s far to the gate and 
far to the house. Oh! I wish I could live with you, 
Miss Jane.” 

“ Perhaps we’ll find a princess sleeping in this 
wood,” and Jane peered over the fence. “ Who 
knows? ” and she laughed as she looked at the round 
blue eyes of the little Dunlaps, set in such stolid little 
faces, framed in such very sandy hair. Was she not 
daring to expect to find imagination in them? But 
not so Tena. 

Presently they came to two solid stone posts, and 
between them a wide iron gate. From this a road 
wound away into the woods. The little Dunlaps 
looked with some awe at Jane as she swung the gate 
open and led the way in, while she observed with some 
curiosity the sudden irruption of good work and ma- 
terial into the long length of old fence. And yet the 
stone posts did not look new, nor was there any spe- 
268 


The Making of Jane 

cial finish about them, and the gate, too, was simple 
enough; still, it gave Jane a different feeling to the 
place. For awhile the road was like any other rough 
way through a forest, then suddenly there were signs 
of clearing; then an abrupt turn and the wood showed 
almost like a park, and was evidently of long standing. 
The trees were large, and the land sloped upward to 
where on the highest spot a house stood. The grass 
was thick and fine, and all about were cows and horses 
grazing. It was pretty, and Jane liked it; it looked as 
if it were a home where happy people lived, and had 
lived for years. 

Nearer they went, the children not heeding the cattle 
that gave Jane a little tremor, but advancing eagerly. 

“ We’ve never been here before,” Nannie whispered, 
and Jane’s imagination received a fillip. 

Soon they saw that about the house there was 
another fence, enclosing it and a large garden from 
the intrusion of the cattle, and that the house, a square, 
two-story building, was of brick. The children had 
become very quiet, and Nannie had straightened her 
own and her sister’s hat in a responsible, motherly way 
she had, and had pulled down Joey’s jacket. Jane 
watched, she was finding these children more inter- 
esting than she had thought, and wondered what 
prompted Nannie’s propriety. On nearer view the 
place lost the homelike look. The garden was neg- 
lected, and the house seemed entirely shut up. In 
fact, it began to look deserted, desolate, and while won- 
dering more at Nannie’s desire to appear well, she 
wondered less at Tena’s evident reluctance to return 
269 


The Making of Jane 

home. Perhaps they were plain people living in a 
good place, and so occupying only the back of the 
house. Then she remembered that Mrs. Dunlap had 
spoken of a servant being sent for the child, and the 
father’s not wishing her to go about alone, and though 
servants seemed to be plenty — Jane had seen a number 
at Mrs. Dunlap’s — still Mrs. Dunlap had spoken as if 
Mr. Beaton were a person of importance, and decidedly 
Tena looked far above the common. 

At last they reached the garden-gate, and Jane 
paused. “ You are safe now, Tena,” she said, “ run 
in.” 

The child looked up. “ Would you kiss me for 
good-by?” she asked. 

For a second Jane hesitated. Would it mean ten 
kisses every morning and every afternoon! Her own 
empty childhood rose before her and she stooped to 
be caught in a strangling embrace. 

“ You should save some of these kisses for your 
mother,” she said, breathlessly. 

The child’s arms dropped at her sides, and turning, 
she went slowly away up the garden walk and around 
the house, never once looking back. 

“ She hasn’t any mother,” Nannie said in an awe- 
stricken whisper, “ and nobody knows if she ever had 
any!” 

“ Come,” Jane said, “ let us walk faster.” 


270 


XVI 


“ The lost days of my life until to-day, 

What were they, — ” 

“ '"I ''HANK you — was dreadfully anxious — have 
-L written. L. Creswick,” 

It was just seven o’clock. The day was done, and 
Jane, the early supper over, had been sitting by the 
fire in her own room facing with some dismay the long 
evening that stretched before her, when this touch 
from the life she had left roused her with a shock that 
was startling. Since the morning she had been in a 
brand-new world, she had thought of herself as en- 
tirely cut off from her past, as almost another being, 
and now, here was Laurence Creswick almost speak- 
ing to her! A thrill went over her; they all knew 
where she was; would anything happen? Would 
anybody come? 

The day with all its happenings, its experiences that 
were interesting because they were so new, all faded 
away, and her thoughts flew back to what she had left. 
She was in the same old world, the same old country, 
tied and glued to the same old life by innumerable, 
indestructible wires, and stamps, and shining lines of 
steel rails ! And the world was small, and the country 
was smaller, and time and space had long ago been 
annihilated. 


271 


The Making of Jane 

That morning she had suffered acutely; that after- 
noon she had actually played like a child, had given 
vent to some of the youth that had been shut away 
in her for all these years; she had practically for- 
gotten her trials in the pure joy of what had seemed 
absolute freedom. She had run against the wind, she 
had winked at the sun, had stopped breathless in the 
shadow of the wood, had been affected by the little 
timid, wild child, and the seeming mystery that sur- 
rounded her. And she had been happy, actually 
happy. 

She held the telegram away from her. For a mo- 
ment she hated it, hated Laurence Creswick, hated 
herself for having revealed her hiding-place. All her 
suffering, all her humiliation seemed to have caught 
up with her again, horrid shapes speeding across the 
country to lay shadowy hands once more upon her. 
Why had she revealed herself! It would have been 
enough to have telegraphed her father. She would 
burn this telegram and not answer any letters. She 
held the flimsy paper toward the fire. The heated air 
fluttered it, and would carry it unharmed up and out 
of the wide chimney to float away on the wind, and per- 
haps to meet her again to-morrow. She took the 
tongs, she would hold it down in the red coals; the 
tongs lapped, and the yellow paper fluttered to the 
floor. She looked at it for a moment, then took it 
up, fate was against its destruction. She was silly, 
and Laurence Creswick was very kind to be anxious. 

She laid the telegram on the table, which she had 
pulled close up to the fire, and there the lamp-light 
272 


The Making of Jane 

fell full upon the few words and the signature — L. 
Creswick. Of course, she could not escape; no one 
ever escaped from anything. Nothing was ever anni- 
hilated, words never ceased to sound; deeds never 
ceased to effect; thoughts never ceased to operate. 
The whole universe was filled with these influences that 
held us down, and pushed us back, and met us armed 
at every corner of life. People ought to teach this to 
children ; warn them of the lengthening chain that was 
soldered to each soul, to each link of which hung some 
act, or thought, or regret. If they clanked, these 
chains, what a furious noise there would be! If we 
could see them, how terrible would be the sight! No, 
there was no escape. Already all the people she had 
run away from were down on her with their telegrams, 
and letters, and eyes, and hands, and mouths full of 
her past life! 

She leaned back in the big splint-bottomed rocking- 
chair with its homely crochetted tidy, and closed her 
eyes. Picture after picture came up before her; vivid, 
speaking, moving pictures of various people from her 
old life, in various unexpected connections. Some of 
them she had not thought of particularly, and in posi- 
tions she was not conscious of having remembered. 
Kaleidoscopic views that were unexpectedly, strangely 
characteristic. A pose of the head, a turn of the body, 
a pause in their going, a gesture of the hands, they 
were caught in her memory just so, somehow, and 
were more vivid now in their absence than ever before 
in their presence. Miss Witting’s shaking head and 
gnarled old face, the chuckle as she said : “ It’s your 

273 


The Making of Jane 

hand, child,” and her own wonder that anyone should 
think that anything was hers. Mrs. Kennet’s cynical 
smile as she pushed Mrs. Saunders’s pet dog aside with 
her foot, not kicking it, but longing to, and Jane, the 
unnoticed child, watching her curiously. And Mr. 
DeLong, putting his head back and laughing silently 
as Mrs. Saunders turned and walked away from him. 
And Fanny, the maid, putting something into her 
pocket out of Mrs. Saunders’s drawer; she seemed to 
see again the expression of the girl’s eyes as she 
watched the door, while she closed the drawer softly ! 
She had never spoken of these things, she had been 
afraid, and what an atmosphere of deception seemed 
to have surrounded her cousin. Did people attract to 
themselves the atmosphere that was really theirs, and 
did the kind of people who suited that atmosphere 
wander into it and become their companions? 

And Mrs. Saunders, she could recall her in a thou- 
sand different poses, a thousand different scenes, but 
one with her lips drawn thin with a smile, and her 
eyes like two dull, red flames as she said: “He 
thought you an heiress — my heiress ! ” — this one came 
up always first as with the sudden flaring of a flash- 
light. And Mark Witting framed by the greenness 
of the arbor; the poise of his well-set head, the turn 
of his square shoulders, the peeping sunlight bringing 
out all the red and yellow gleams in his mustache so 
carefully up-curled, in his close-clipped pointed beard, 
the whiteness of his forehead, the gleam in his eyes, 
and the words — She rose up quickly, stood still 
one moment, then sank down again. If they came 

274 


The Making of Jane 

after her ! She would never go back, never — God help 
her, never! 

She sat still a moment as if recovering herself, then 
her thoughts ran on. And she would not go home 
either until she had proved herself. If she failed here, 
well, she was not even now on the lowest rung of the 
ladder; she might succeed in some trade or in service. 
She would do anything rather than acknowledge de- 
feat, than go back a suppliant. But would anyone 
come after her? Again Mrs. Saunders’s face seemed 
to flash before her eyes. She was still under her in- 
fluence, still afraid of her. She should be ashamed 
that she still shrank when she remembered those 
smooth, hard, white hands that had always seemed so 
relentless. These things had been in her imagination 
from the first day in Mrs. Saunders’s home. And her 
father and mother had thought of her as happy, as 
fortunate. They must never know, never. Their let- 
ters had been always so tender, so gentle as if to do 
away with any feeling in her heart that there was lack 
of love. The pain of it would be too great for them. 

She rocked the big chair a little, making an uneven 
sound on the bare floor that recalled her suddenly to 
her surroundings. She looked about her at the clean, 
draughty, big room, with its simple, scanty furniture. 
The best they had, such kindly people. Fifteen dollars 
a month, and no future. She was there for the espe- 
cial purpose of teaching these especial children, and 
however much she might succeed, she was not at lib- 
erty to enlarge the school. She could expect no in- 
crease of salary. Fifteen dollars a month. The only 

275 


The Making of Jane 

thing in view was a higher position. She would need 
more knowledge. She looked up at the mantel-piece 
where her few books, chiefly text-books, stood. She 
should have brought more, she would have hours and 
hours when she could study; time for all the things 
which her life as the child of fashionable people, as a 
young lady in fashionable society had precluded, and 
she had no books. Perhaps her father could send her 
some from home. She remembered a big room walled 
with books — no, it would cost him something. 

She got up and walked about a little. What a wil- 
derness she was in. She took up Laurence Creswick’s 
message. He had been very kind to her, very con- 
siderate. He had advised her to go on studying. 
Again she looked up at the books, a condensed history 
and an advanced arithmetic! Better than thinking, 
than recalling. It would take ages for these children 
to learn enough to cause her to study in order to keep 
ahead of them, save, perhaps, the little Beaton, she 
looked quite different, a higher type, more delicately 
bred. And Nannie’s extraordinary statement, “ She 
has no mother, and nobody knows if she ever had 
one.” Poor little children, how they blundered along 
making so many unappreciated efforts to adjust them- 
selves to the grown-up, puzzling world they found 
about them. Efforts that were not only strenuous, 
but painful, when analyzed. And how few people 
ever tried to adapt themselves to children. Driven in 
upon herself, hopelessly lonely, she had pondered 
much. That old life — that cruel, haunting life! 

Again she moved about. A month, a week, a few 
276 


The Making of Jane 

days ago, her only desire had been to get away; only 
that afternoon she had been content, nay, had rejoiced 
in the sense of freedom, and now a creeping misery, a 
sense of rebellion at the thought that she had found 
her vocation, her future, in this poor little school, these 
few little children. 

She paused to listen, it was raining again. How it 
sounded on the roof. She drew aside the white cotton 
curtain and let out a long piercing ray from the lamp. 
As far as she could see, as far as the light could reach, 
there fell the rain straight and glittering, with now 
and then a rapid slant as the wind came round the 
corner of the house. No light anywhere. All the 
neighborhood had gone to bed. There were no neigh- 
bors. How lonely. How straight the rain fell; how 
hopeless. Far out over the empty hills it was falling; 
all along the desolate clay roads it was falling, all in 
the dark woods. Nothing was stirring but that hope- 
less rain, that wild wind. Out over the empty hills 
she seemed to see it slanting down, she seemed almost 
to feel it. How lonely. Presently, nearer, and below, 
she found something that caught the light from the 
lamp and reflected it steadily. She put her hands each 
side her eyes and peered out. What was it? A roof, 
the roof of the school-room. She dropped the curtain 
and for a moment stood still. Her vocation. Her life 
narrowed down to this ! Shut in by these hills, shut in 
with these people — these people! She could almost 
hear the amused laughter of the world she had left, 
could almost see their unbelieving eyes. Individuality, 
self-respect, freedom? Free to stagnate, and once, oh, 
277 


The Making of Jane 

once, her life, her heart had seemed so full! The 
empty hills, the desolate roads, the lonely woods, the 
shut in life. Free! 

She covered her face with her hands, making her 
way slowly to the bed, sobbing as she went, sobs as 
deep as the sobs of her childhood, as hopeless, and 
with a surer hopelessness. On and on, until at last 
they seemed to expend themselves, then her mind be- 
gan to work once more. The cruelty of it all the years 
back and back. And when a gate had opened in the 
blank wall of her life, and a vision had shone through ; 
when her heart and soul had wakened; when she had 
stood with her hand on the bar — cruel! Why had he 
entered her life, why had he not found out before he 
sought her. Had he loved her a little at the first, 
would it have been possible to simulate it so perfectly? 
Why not believe that he had been true for a little while. 
If only he had died. But if he had ever loved her 
would he have been so deliberately cruel at the last, 
would he ever have told Mrs. Saunders? He had 
loved her, let no one deny it, let no one deny it ! 

She sat up and looked about her, then her thoughts 
went on. Could she ever regain her own self-respect, 
could she ever forgive him? Was she called upon 
to forgive him? She threw herself back on the bed. 
Ever forgive him. Could she not hate him? For- 
getfulness were better. Know that she was maimed, 
accept that as a fact, and work with what was left. 

She lay still listening to the rain, watching the flick- 
ering light from the fire as it played over the white- 
washed walls. Nobody need know the smallness of 
278 


The Making of Jane 

her sphere, nobody need know anything about her, and 
if they laughed, what harm, this life was far more 
honorable than a life of dependence. She could save 
her money and go home some day, that was good; 
she could save her money and some day help her 
father, that was better. Spilled milk could not be 
gathered up again, what use to weary with weeping 
over it. 

The little clock on the mantel-piece struck nine. 
Only nine. Her Cousin Henry had given her that 
clock one day in Paris. He and she had slipped out 
together while Mrs. Saunders was with her tailor, and 
he had bought it for her as a travelling-clock, and that 
morning she had thought what an air it gave to the 
high black mantel-piece. The tone was very sweet in 
a far-off, fairy-like way, and it had ticked her through 
many uninteresting hours of her strictly regulated life, 
and through the hours she had thought happy; now it 
would go with her through the working hours. She 
must study; Laurence Creswick would advise what to 
go on with, and she would send him some money to 
invest for her in the proper books. At first she had 
thought of him as rather stiff, as cold. Skimmed milk, 
Mark Witting had called him. Mark Witting with his 
poisonous passion, his false heart, his slack principles, 
faugh ! 

The fire fell in; perhaps it would roll out on the floor. 
Nannie had warned her about that, and she sat up 
quickly. Roll out indeed, it was everywhere! She 
seized the small hearth-broom and began to sweep the 
coals back into their proper place, after this she worked 
279 


The Making of Jane 

hard with tongs and shovel. When all was arranged, 
she sat down flat on the floor, tongs in hand, wonder- 
ing how she could make it safe for the night. No 
fender; she could put some of the logs out of the wood- 
box around like a fence. It might do if she could in- 
sure that the logs would not get hot and catch in “ the 
dark and middle of the night.” Long she sat there 
pondering; remembering the high fender in the old 
nursery; remembering the trim little logs that burned 
in Mrs. Saunders’s fireplaces, sawed just to fit, and not 
a speck of ashes ever left from one day to another. 
These logs had been cut with an axe, and some were 
a little too long and had to go in on a slant, and the 
ashes from last night’s fire, and the fire that had been 
banked up all day, were there in soft, gray piles going 
down to a glowing heart of heat, how pretty it was. 
But how to manage for the night. There must be 
some received method, she should have asked Nannie. 
How would the tongs do — the shovel and tongs 
crossed; they declined to interlace, and rattled down on 
the bricks. She must not waken the family. Then a 
bright thought came to her, she would drag out the 
dogs and cross them! She put out her hand, fortu- 
nately only one finger reached the andiron, and was 
instantly withdrawn, how foolish not to know that it 
was hot. She looked at the delicate little tip; to-mor- 
row it would be blistered. 

The andiron idea was a good one, however, and get- 
ting a towel she proceeded to arrange them as she had 
decided, then she resumed her seat on the floor with 
her arms around her knees, watching the fire. Yes, 
280 


The Making of Jane 

she would send some money to Laurence Creswick 
and ask him to select some books. He would know 
better than she what she needed, and these long even- 
ings, growing longer as the winter advanced, she would 
carry on her reading and studying. She could ac- 
complish a great deal. And she must write to her 
father, to her Cousin Henry, and send it to the club. 


281 


A 


XVII 


“ That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with out- 
right ; 

But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.” 

I T was a very plain, two-storied house ; artists would 
have called it ivory-white, ordinary folk would have 
said that it needed more paint. The green blinds 
needed paint also, but in spite of this, it seemed to 
harmonize with the vividly blue sky above it, and the 
deep almost bronze-green of the pines and live-oaks 
about it. It had no architectural claims either. The 
piazza that ran around three sides of its lower story 
was very deep, with old-fashioned round, tapering 
posts. It had been added to also, in various ways, 
spreading out into shed-rooms and the like, but it was 
big, just as Jane had declared it to be, and the one 
wing that extended to the height of the second story, 
had the old nursery in it still. The outlook was over 
marsh and river; the background was a pine barren, 
and along the bluff on which it was built there was 
an occasional palmetto-tree, tall and stately, standing 
alone, and sharply silhouetted. 

The barn, the out-buildings, the stables, were all at 
the back, a small farm practically, while the fields and 
the negro quarters, and the barns for the crop, were a 
mile or so away, and on the banks of another and larger 
282 


The Making of Jane 

river. Over all there was a repose, a simple homeli- 
ness, a comfortable, quiet effortlessness that would 
have soothed the most troubled soul. The chairs on 
the deep piazza were battered because being comfort- 
able they were much used. The furniture within was 
the same. The old furniture shining with use and 
rubbing, the newer furniture, filling gaps left by the 
fortunes of war, or called for by the increasing needs 
of the family, did not look so well ; it was not so good, 
and had yielded to treatment in a weak way that de- 
manded much repairing. But here, as elsewhere, 
there was the same effortless comfort; a serenity that 
extended also to the study. The walls were lined with 
books in the old-fashioned way from floor to ceiling, 
windows and doors and the fireplace making the only 
breaks. 

The occupants of the study, however, did not seem 
so serene. They were very silent; the mother sitting 
drooped together near the fire, the father leaning 
against the corner of a bookcase, and looking out of 
the window that stood open down to the floor, and 
gave on to the piazza. The piazza, the old garden, 
the bluff, the marsh, the blue horizon where a point of 
wood ended in a misty opening which meant the sound, 
then the sea. It was the sea that he seemed to be 
looking at, that or something else beyond his ken, and 
it was something sad, something painful. 

Two days before a long telegram from Mrs. Saun- 
ders had been sent over from the station, a short letter, 
in fact, in which she had asked for Marion to be sent 
on at once, not waiting for clothes, or packing, or any- 
283 


The Making of Jane 

thing, everything was provided for, but to leave on 
the first train after the telegram was received. That 
it was going to be a wonderful season, and they wanted 
Marion, and wanted her at once; explanations in writ- 
ing were on the way. 

This had come on Monday evening. Marion had 
seemed to lose her wits with excitement, while the 
parents, thinking only of Jane’s joy in having her sister, 
had, with many blessings and in all faith and hope, 
sent Marion off as soon as possible. Now, on 
Wednesday two letters had come from Mrs. Saun- 
ders, and one from Jane, and the whole universe 
seemed upside down! They did not know their child 
save through letters, they did not know Mrs. Saun- 
ders save through letters, and how were they to 
judge. The letter from Jane had been opened first; 
it was not long, but it took the mother’s breath away, 
and she had paused in her reading with a pleading 
look at her husband. The letter was to him, but he 
had given it to the mother to open, and she had been 
reading it aloud. 

“ Gone out as a teacher,” Mr. Ormonde had said 
slowly; “ where is that telegram?” 

“ I thought that Marion had been sent for because 
of Jane,” the mother answered. 

Mr. Ormonde had found the telegram by this time 
and was reading it. “ No word of Jane,” he said, 
slowly, “ only ‘ we ’ all through, and, of course, I 
thought that meant Jane; and dated Monday at twelve 
o’clock. When is Jane’s letter dated? ” 

“ Sunday.” 

“ Open Jane Saunders’s letters.” 

284 


The Making of Jane 

“ Both dated on Monday,” was answered ; “ one in 
the afternoon — that one says that she is stunned, that 
Jane has run away.” 

“And the other one?” 

“ Is all about Marion’s coming on, and of the de- 
lightful winter she hopes the two girls will have, and 
that Marion’s coming is to be a surprise to Janey, 
and that she is so impatient that she has sent for 
Marion by telegraph.” 

“ And no word of any kind from Henry.” 

In the silence that fell, sounds rather tumultuous 
for a school-room came from where Billy was teach- 
ing some of his younger brothers and sisters. Tom 
was away at college, Billy was preparing under his 
father, and between times taught those of the children 
who were old enough to learn, and now there were 
indications in the air that some kind of a riot was go- 
ing on; but the mother, who was usually on the alert 
to pour oil on the troubled waters, did not move, did 
not seem even to hear, while the noises, smothered by 
distance, seemed to make the silence of the study more 
tense. 

“ No word from Henry,” Mr. Ormonde said again. 
“I don’t understand. Have you Jane’s letters?” 

“ Every one, from the very first that she wrote.” 

“ And she could not write when she first went there.” 

“ No.” 

“ I don’t understand,” Mr. Ormonde repeated, and 
took up Jane’s letter, reading aloud : “ I cannot rest 

any longer in useless idleness, and I am going out as a 
teacher! ” 

“ And she had found the position for herself,” Mrs. 
285 


The Making of Jane 

Ormonde interpolated, “and has not told Henry or 
Jane.” 

“ No, but she does not say that she is sorry to leave 
them, and Henry should have written.” 

“ Perhaps he is stunned, too.” 

Mr. Ormonde took up Mrs. Saunders’s letter. “ My 
dear Cousins,” it began, “ I scarcely know how to write 
to you. Only an hour ago I sent off a telegram and a 
letter begging for Marion. Doing it, of course, chiefly 
on Jane’s account, our dear Janey, and now only a 
moment, a little moment ago, I have read a letter from 
her saying that she has gone ! I do not know how to 
write to you, and yet I must, for Henry is prostrated. 
I have not telegraphed this dreadful news to you be- 
cause in her letter to me the child says that she has 
written to you, and I pray that before this reaches you, 
you — we — will have heard of her safe arrival some- 
where. And what will you think of my asking for 
another child when I seem to have been so negligent 
of the first? But believe me, she has in all these years 
been my first thought. Scarcely has she ever been 
out of my heart or my sight. Everything possible has 
been done both for her mind and her body, and from 
the very first moment of her arrival — a little, tired, 
homesick child — ” Mr. Ormonde dashed the letter on 
the floor. “ God forgive me — God forgive me ! ” he 
cried, while a spark seemed to lighten slowly in his 
grave, quiet eyes. “ I am afraid that I put a little 
helpless child into a strait place; a little helpless child 
for all these years, and she has never told me, until 
now she has broken away — God forgive me ! ” 

286 


The Making of Jane 

“ Oh, no! ” Mrs. Ormonde cried, “Jane Saunders is 
a just woman, and no woman could be unkind to a 
helpless child. And surely, surely, some word would 
have slipped out in the child's letters. Read on," and 
picking up the letter she put it in his hand. “ Read, 
see what she says about the new fashion of the day that 
the girls should have professions," and her husband, 
not looking at the letter, she read aloud : “ I am so 
much afraid that your child has become imbued with 
the modern fad, the idea that it is strong and right to 
go and make one’s own way in the world. I have done 
my best to keep her away from this element, and espe- 
cially did not permit her to have what is called the 
4 higher education ’ for women. But, of course, in the 
world she has met the new woman, and I am afraid that 
this headstrong movement is the result. I cannot ex- 
press my sorrow, and Henry is too grief-stricken to 
write. He feels as I do, that you will blame us. That 
we have had your child for all these years, and that she 
should have loved us too much to have treated us in 
this way. I have only material things to show you to 
prove how we have tried, at least, to do everything 
possible for Janey, and I will send you her trunks, all 
that she left, for you to use for the younger girls, and 
if in the face of our common calamity you will let me 
keep your Marion for this winter at least, or for as long 
as she is happy with us, I shall thank you from my 
lonely and bereft heart, and be only too grateful to be 
allowed to do everything in my power to make her 
contented, and also will allow her to judge between 
us as to how dear Jane was treated. You have a right 
287 


The Making of Jane 

to pass judgment on me, and we will constitute Marion 
the judge. Oh, my poor cousins, how I suffer with 
you! God grant that you have had some word of the 
child’s safe arrival somewhere. She has not given us 
an inkling of her plans. God help you! 

“ Yours in deep grief, 

“Jane Saunders.” 

“ You see, dear, it all seems to be as she says; Janey 
is young, and we do not know how headstrong she 
may be.” 

“ She was a gentle little creature,” the father said, 
“ and with the truest eyes I have ever seen. For all 
these years I have missed her; I have never forgotten 
how she looked up at me when she said good-by — God 
forgive me ! ” 

“We thought it for her good.” 

“ I was a coward not to be sure that I could support 
my own.” 

“ Times were so hard just then.” 

“ And you did not want to let her go, you gave up 
because I said it.” 

“ And we are not sure that we did wrong; wait and 

_ if 

see. 

“Wait — wait! When I do not know where my 
child is? A girl going about all unprotected; and who 
knows what money she has?” 

“ God will take care of her.” 

Then it was that Mr. Ormonde went away to the 
window and stood looking out steadily as if trying to 
find with his eyes the far-off, unseeable ocean. He did 
288 


The Making of Jane 

not know how, he could not place it, but somehow — 
somewhere — he had been deceived. He seemed to 
know his child, something in her letter spoke directly 
to him. The sending for Marion seemed to mean more 
than was on the surface; there was too much of coin- 
cidence; the grief in the letter came too easily, went 
into too nice sentences, into too well-chosen terms. 
How little he knew that woman, and yet he had given 
a little child into her keeping. God forgive him ! No, 
he had given the child to his more than brother; surely, 
surely, he had been true to his trust. Had he? Was 
there not a promise given that the child should come 
home to see them? and something had always pre- 
vented? He should have thought of this before; how 
time had drifted by and still he had had faith. So 
many children, ten in all, only little Jim had gone. 

He turned quickly. “ You remember, Mary,” he 
said, “ how at the last little Jim called for her, and we 
could not get her? We should have brought her home 
then.” 

Mrs. Ormonde came to his side. “ She was in Eu- 
rope, don’t you remember? ” putting her hand in his 
arm, “ and they had done so much for the child, and 
were doing so much for her, it would have seemed 
ungrateful to have taken her away then when they had 
learned to love her. We have done all for the best, 
and God knows it.” 

“ But where is she now?” 

“Safe somewhere; we shall hear soon.” 

“ Then I shall go and fetch her.” 

“ No, don’t make up your mind to that. In the 
289 


The Making of Jane 

case of a young girl one must be careful, one must 
consider the world. What might not be construed 
out of such a sudden return home? ” 

Mr. Ormonde’s eyes flashed. “ I’d ” 

“And make matters worse. I will tell you now 
that every day of every year I have missed and 
yearned for my child — my first-born — with your eyes, 
with your nature — I loved her doubly.” 

He drew her closer. 

“ But love and duty descend, you know, and parents 
must give more than they can expect again — must 
give themselves. I do not grudge anything that I 
have suffered, but now because of my sufferings you 
must heed me. Mothers’ wisdom is born in the heart, 
you know, and so is truly wise. Something has hap- 
pened, and that something has made the child go 
away. She is escaping, and she wishes to do it in 
the least possible conspicuous way. She says, ‘ Trust 
me, dear father, that what I am doing is for the best.’ 
We will trust her.” 

“ And not know.” 

“She is trying to spare us; let us wait. No one 
would understand a girl, for no reason at all, return- 
ing from a luxurious home filled with pleasure to a 
home in the dull country; but going off for herself, 
and Marion going on to take her place, this is reason- 
able. This is easier to explain, even to our own chil- 
dren — wait.” 

Mr. Ormonde moved away. “ I will ride over to 
the station,” he said, “ there may be news.” 

She watched him walk toward the barn, stood still, 
290 


The Making of Jane 

with the tears gathering, and it was not until she heard 
the steady gallop of his horse that she wiped her eyes 
and turned to meet the culminated rebellion that, from 
the school-room, was advancing on the study to de- 
mand arbitration. 

Later, Mr. Ormonde brought back Jane’s despatch, 
“Arrived safely; will write.” And though he knew 
where she was, he agreed to wait until the letter should 
come. But now that his mind was relieved, a little 
hurt feeling was developing that Jane had not taken 
him into her confidence. Surely she should have told 
her parents. And that night he wrote Marion a let- 
ter, which, opening, she found marked “ Private,” and 
within, the most carefully worded but most uncom- 
promising order to come home the very first moment 
that she felt unhappy, or on the first shadow of an 
intimation from anyone that she was in the least in 
the way. He would have ordered her home at once 
but for his wife. And Marion smiled as she read. 
Smiled at her pretty self in the long mirror before 
which she sat; smiled at the maid who was doing her 
sunny hair; smiled down on all the soft lace and rib- 
bon that enveloped her; smiled still more as her eyes 
wandered to her little feet in their silken stockings 
and satin slippers. She shook her head. No one 
should ever feel her in the way; no one should ever 
make her feel herself in the way! And she tore the 
letter up into minute, very minute fragments. Her 
sister Jane was a mystery. And she moved a little 
that she might realize the softness and fineness of her 
new apparel. How delightful! She had never really 
had clothes before, but only coverings for her body! 
291 


The Making of Jane 

Mrs. Saunders herself had met her on her arrival. 
Such a handsome woman, and such a dream of a car- 
riage! She was so taken care of, so comfortably put 
in, so instantly unresponsible for anything. And Mrs. 
Saunders kissed her so gently, so tenderly, and with 
tears in her eyes. “ I'm so unnerved,” she said, “ you 
must forgive me. We heard of Jane’s safety only last 
night.” 

Then Marion’s eyes had grown wide. “Janey’s 
safety! ” 

“ Yes, you don’t know, of course; the very day I 
telegraphed for you, she ran away; she left before I 
came down in the morning. I am not strong, and I 
never come down until luncheon, and she was gone! 
The servant who took my telegram and mailed my 
letter to your father brought me Jane’s note telling 
us good-by,” she sobbed a little. “ That was on Mon- 
day, and it was not until Wednesday evening — last 
evening — that we had any news from her. It has been 
terrible! She seems to be teaching somewhere in the 
South, and we cannot understand it. I am so much 
afraid that your father will think it our fault and send 
for you.” 

Marion moved uneasily. 

“ If you will only persuade him to let you stay, 
dear, to give us another trial, it will be a great boon 
to your Cousin Henry as well as to me.” 

“ Of course, and I shall write at once, and I will 
stay. If Janey is safe it will all come right; but I 
don’t understand.” 

“ Nor do we, we cannot understand, and your Cous- 
292 


The Making of Jane 

in Henry has scarcely spoken since Monday; he went 
to the country for a day, but he was too miserable, 
and came back. He was wrapped up in Jane, and now 
he cannot seem to look at me, he associates me so 
with our child — for she seemed our child. And he 
may even treat you in the same way. Jane will have 
a great deal to answer for, for she has spoiled a happy 
home. ,, 

And Mr. Saunders’s greeting had been pretty much 
as his wife had foretold. “ If ever you are unhappy,” 
he had said, “ come at once and tell me, and I my- 
self will take you immediately to your father,” but he 
did not once look at Mrs. Saunders nor speak to her. 
All this Marion had written to her mother, her view 
of things colored, of course, by days of unspeakable 
bliss among tailors and dressmakers and importers of 
exquisite luxuries, everything that a girl could want, 
and Mrs. Saunders would say: “We must be happy 
this winter with what New York can furnish; in the 
spring we shall go to Europe and put the finishing 
touches.” And Marion had said to herself, over and 
over again: “ How shall I ever leave it all! ” 

So when her father’s letter arrived, so stern in its 
tone, so uncompromising in its commands, she tore it 
into minute fragments. No one must ever feel her in 
the way, no one must ever make her feel herself in 
the way. 


293 


XVIII 


“ The end crowns all, 

And that old common arbitrator, Time, 

Will one day end it." 

“ \ li7 HOSO loseth his life shall gain it.” The 
VV principle of this strange, immutable law, 
that is verified before our eyes every day, works in many 
ways. We usually confine it to spiritual things ; we 
usually think of it only in connection with the lives of 
people who visibly put off one environment to take 
on another, apparently without reward, and there it 
works, of course, but it works in other ways also; it 
works in physical things just as immutably. Make 
an effort to lose something, to conceal something, and 
see what happens. The objectionable thing turns up 
on all occasions. You come upon it in the depths of 
old chests, in the remotest top shelves of darkest 
closets ; thrown into the waste-basket, it peeps through 
the meshes; into the dust-bin, it appears on the tip-top 
of the topmost pinnacle of the scavenger’s cart, and 
seems to smile at you serenely as it jolts away; then 
what happens ? You find that that very thing could have 
been used in a dozen ways. Or take the cases of mur- 
derers, of thieves ; concealment, the losing of the thing 
seems to be impossible. It is not fable that blood cries 
from the ground, that the dead come back, that our 
294 


The Making of Jane 

good and evil thoughts and acts constitute themselves 
blessings or furies to track and overtake us. 

So it was that this law was now working in the case 
of Mrs. Saunders. In her own world Mrs. Saunders 
herself had filled her whole foreground. Her house, 
her servants, her horses, her friends, her engagements, 
her Jane, her husband, her charities, her daily, hourly 
self-abnegation before all these things, was the unfail- 
ing theme of her talk. Everything taken and judged 
only as it related to herself, everything coming in as a 
background for her restless egotism. But on Jane’s 
trying further to efface herself, the strange thing hap- 
pened that, even to Mrs. Saunders, she loomed up to 
the exclusion of all else. People asked after her inces- 
santly, pitied Mrs. Saunders, commented on Mr. Saun- 
ders’s looks, the change that had come over him, or on 
Marion’s being quite pretty, but without her sister’s 
charm. Just here Mrs. Saunders would say: “Yes, 
I spent much time on Jane,” but only to see with aston- 
ished eyes that people did not seem to put Jane’s at- 
tractions down to this source. 

Then her husband had changed radically. A kindly, 
perhaps lazy man, the girl had meant much to him. 
He had felt that perhaps his wife’s rules were rather 
rigid, but the child looked well and made no complaint, 
responding to all his advances gently, sweetly, with a 
look in her eyes that he did not understand at the time, 
but that later he had found had been caused by fear for 
her parents and their poverty. He had tried to answer 
the look in her eyes by all sorts of gifts ; by taking her 
out in a frolicsome way when his wife was occupied; 
295 


The Making of Jane 

by jocular comments on the “ Higher powers,” when 
they breakfasted alone together. His aim in life had 
been peace, and a desire to help the man whom he loved 
as a brother. The girl’s going, slipping away, escaping 
as out of a prison had come to him as a tragic revela- 
tion of many things; had soured all the milk of human 
kindness in his nature that had made him so easy to 
live with; had seemed to dry him up, as it were; to 
take the spring out of his spirit and the juices out of 
his body. He was changed, tremendously changed, 
and his wife was uneasy. 

Next, Marion was a study. Marion had grown up 
in a family republic, and spoke her thoughts, and made 
her comments with a frankness that might very easily 
prove a great danger. It had been so easy to manipu- 
late her husband, and she had begun so early to train 
Jane, that she had never really had to arrange things, 
but only to give orders ; so much so, that at the last she 
had overstepped the limits of her power and Jane had, 
in a way, defied her. Marion required thought and 
study; her husband required thought and study; her 
explanations to the world, that must not be excuses, 
they also required thought and study; so it was that 
Jane, in trying to lose herself, had loomed up big and 
strange as a shadow cast on a mist, and filled the whole 
foreground of Mrs. Saunders’s life. 

At her own home, too, Jane had come to the front 
in a way that she had never done before, especially 
when Marion’s first letter arrived. A rapturous letter, 
telling of all that Mrs. Saunders was planning, and of 
the depression that had seized on Mr. Saunders since 
296 


The Making of Jane 

Jane’s leaving. “ Mrs. Saunders,” she wrote, “ who 
cannot stand the name of Jane any more, and makes 
me call her ‘ cousin/ is bearing up wonderfully, and 
answers all the questions about Janey so sweetly and 
kindly, and of course there are a great many. It is 
very hard on them, and I don’t pretend to understand 
Janey, but it could not have been any lack of kindness 
that drove her away, for cousin fairly lavishes things 
on me. And cousin says that she is going to write to 
Janey, which I think will be very kind and forgiving 
of her.” 

The mother was puzzled, the father was troubled, 
and, thinking that he had waited long enough, and that 
Jane was the only person who could give the reason for 
her action, he wrote to her immediately as he had read 
Marion’s letter, suggesting that she should come home 
to her own people — there was room enough and to 
spare — and give some explanation of her course. 

This letter might have caused Jane tears if she had 
not chanced to read it on the highway. For several 
days, without success, Jane had gone to the post-office 
in the morning before school. So far from rushing 
after her, as she had feared, they seemed to be ignoring 
her, treating her as if she were in disgrace — all, at least, 
save Laurence Creswick; he had written instantly: and 
while waiting on the others, she had run the gamut of 
feeling from fear to surprise, to pain. Her father did 
not trust her, she had said over and over again, nor her 
mother, and she could not blame them ; she had not ex- 
plained ; she had elected never to explain ; and what 
might not Mrs. Saunders have written ? What matter, 
297 


The Making of Jane 

what matter? she had run away because she could 
stand the life no longer; if she explained, her father 
and mother would scarcely be able to stand their lives. 
Let be — let be. 

Then she had deferred her walk to the office until the 
afternoon, sometimes taking the children with her. 
This afternoon, however, she had made the expedition 
alone, and had found two letters. She had come away 
slowly through the town, hesitating to open the letters, 
and apparently entertaining all of her emotions at 
once. She had paused at the gate of the Dunlaps, but 
had not gone in. She would walk on ; all of the beauti- 
ful afternoon was before her ; she would go up on the 
hills ; she liked the high uplands, where the wind blew 
so fresh and free, and the crickets cried so ceaselessly. 
There was a sort of cynic mirth in the crickets’ song 
sung at the fading of the year, a shrill cheer for death 
and desolation. 

And as she walked she read ; first the note from her 
father, that would have called forth the tears, save for 
her surroundings, and if, further, she had not held in 
her hands a letter from Mrs. Saunders, the first page 
of which dried up all possibility of tears, for in it was 
the first intimation that had reached her of Marion’s 
having gone to take her place. She looked again at 
her father’s note, but there was no hint of it; he was 
too much occupied in trying to forgive her. She drew 
a long breath and turned once more to Mrs. Saun- 
ders’s letter. 

Slowly she walked, very slowly, going over page 
after page, the firm writing filling each page closely. 
298 


The Making of Jane 

Slowly and more slowly, reading carefully, breathless- 
ly. The pages were many, and the envelope slipped 
from between her overful fingers. Down it fluttered 
to the road, followed her for a little while, driven by 
the wind, then a stone stopped it ; then on again, until a 
cross current drove it against one of the square stone 
gate-posts of the Beaton place. Another little gust 
took it under the gate and up the road, then laid it 
down, address upward, precisely as if it were an un- 
opened letter dropped by some careless hand. Pres- 
ently Mr. Beaton, walking slowly, smoking, came upon 
it. 

“ So this is the way that rascally Isaac brings my 
letters ! ” he said. 

He did not quicken his steps, nor when he reached 
it, did he stoop quickly ; nor when he had secured it, did 
he make any apology to the absent servant. He read 
the address, “ Miss Jane Ormonde/' That was the 
new teacher sent for by the exclusive set in the village ! 
He reached the gate, and, leaning his arms on the top 
of it, he looked up and down the road. There she was, 
walking away from him, reading ; reading absorbingly 
the letter, probably from the envelope which he held. 
He glanced at it again, and glanced again at the reced- 
ing figure. It was graceful, it was young ; she walked 
well, too : and the handwriting on the envelope was the 
handwriting of a cultivated person. Possibly she had 
a broken nose, or was cross-eyed ; something must be 
amiss to make a person with such a back and such a 
walk come so far down into the wilderness to teach 
a little school. He looked again at Jane’s receding 

299 


The Making of Jane 

figure. The road ran very straight and broad, and be- 
yond this thickly wooded level, that even in winter made 
a shady place, it led away up a long, steep hill, between 
fields, one of the desolate roads; a road at the mercy 
of all the storms of heaven, with no comforting home- 
stead for many a long mile. Just now it lay under the 
slanting light of the afternoon sun, and Jane was clear- 
ly silhouetted. She was nearing the top, where she 
would disappear, and he watched her idly for a moment 
as more and more of her came above the hill and against 
the sky. Once more he wondered a little, then looked 
at the envelope, as if deciding what to do with it. 
Presently he laid it on top of one of the gate-posts, 
where it would be clearly visible, and put a pebble on 
it, then turned back slowly toward the house. 

And the letter. “ My dearest Jane ; ” it began. 
Jane longed to stamp on it. “ Dearest ! ” She read 
on : “I cannot forget the many years when you were 
as my own, even if at the last you stabbed me to the 
heart by your method of returning all that we had 
meant as kindness. There was no necessity for you to 
steal away as you did, confirming my long-fought fears 
of your being secretive — may I not say underhanded ? ” 
The color blazed in Jane’s cheeks ; her eyes were burn- 
ing. “If you had told us, told us of your great un- 
happiness, or discontent, rather, we would have sent 
you home gladly — it seems ungracious to say it, but a 
little more gladly than perhaps you imagined. And 
all this while I was planning a pleasant surprise for 
you. The very day you left, I had telegraphed for 
Marion to come ; urging her to come as quickly as pos- 
300 


The Making of Jane 

sible, thinking to make you happier. Her welcome 
was necessarily saddened by your action, for your dear 
father and mother having faith in me, sent her on by 
the next train ; and it was not until she arrived — find- 
ing me a wreck from anxiety and your Cousin Henry 
a changed man — that she heard of your desertion of us. 
And when I say that your cousin is a changed man, I 
do not speak it lightly. You will realize it when I tell 
you his greeting to Marion. He kissed her coldly, 
then said : ‘If you do not find yourself happy, you will 
be kind enough to tell me, and I, myself, will at once 
take you to your father.’ And he so kind, so hospitable, 
so affectionate! There are ways in which you could 
have wounded me alone and not have dealt almost a 
death-blow to one who was always so eager for your 
love that he left all the disagreeable management and 
the disciplining of you in my hands. And I — well, 
I do not know what charges you can bring against me, 
except your rag-doll, and my saving you from Mark 
Witting. But to turn to pleasanter things: We find 
Marion charming. Sweet, bright, exceedingly pretty, 
and very vivacious. Yes, we no longer find ourselves a 
dull and silent trio, save for what I managed to say, 
striving so hard to lighten up our overcharged domestic 
atmosphere. Marion is really a light in the household, 
so original, and you may imagine what she is to me, 
so responsive, so appreciative, so delighted with every- 
thing. To shop with and for her is a joy; and she 
looks so well in her things. We are to begin the sea- 
son with a large reception in December, to introduce 
Marion, just as we introduced you ; then we are to have 
301 


The Making of Jane 

several dinners, and Wednesdays in January, then the 
opera-box, of course, and I think we are going to have 
a very brilliant season, the only drawback being your 
Cousin Henry’s great depression. He never smiles, 
and seldom looks up from his plate or his paper. The 
other day we met Mr. Witting; he seemed to be very 
glad to see me, and pleased to meet Marion, who got 
on very pleasantly with him. He is to dine with us 
very soon. In a book-shop we met Laurence Cres- 
wick, and he and Marion seemed to have an affinity for 
each other ; she likes him far more than she does Mark 
Witting. Well, my dear Jane, I must say that I am 
very sorry for you ; sorrier, perhaps, than I am for my- 
self ; for I, at least, have nothing to regret, and am only 
grieved for you, for it is one of the saddest things in 
life to watch the wilful blunders of the young — casting 
away their friends, their opportunities, their future. 
Poor things ! For you, I dread to think what your 
future will be — lonely, poor, warped, lost in the wilder- 
ness as a village school-marm ! Heavens ! I shall try 
to show in Marion what my wishes were for you ; and 
if there is such a thing as success, I shall find it for her, 
even to the extent, if necessary, of making her my heir- 
ess. I shall always be glad to answer your letters, 
and to help you pecuniarily, when you need it, as as- 
suredly you will, but I am surprised and grieved that 
you have not had the grace to write to your Cousin 
Henry. Always your well-wisher, 

“ Jane Saunders.” 

Jane drew a sharp breath and looked about her in 
a dazed way. She felt as if she had been beaten 
302 


The Making of Jane 

down by a shower of blows — well-aimed, deftly plant- 
ed, neatly padded blows, that had left her deaf, and 
blind, and senseless. She shook her head as if after 
an actual physical stroke, then the last words in the 
letter came back to her, letting in one clear ray of pure 
light, that shot sharply across the dark chaos of her 
feelings. She had written to her Cousin Henry, had 
sent it to his club: and that he had not mentioned it, 
showed that he understood, that he was on her side. 
God bless him ! 

She quickened her step ; she felt a desire to wear her- 
self out in some way. On and on, following the yel- 
low road between the lines of rail fences, between the 
empty fields, sometimes up-hill, sometimes down-hill, 
tramping, tramping, trying to get away, trying to wear 
herself out. On and on, not heeding the distance, not 
heeding the hour. Fighting over again all the doubts, 
all the pain, all the hesitation, all the questions that she 
had seemed to blot out, that she had blotted out, by 
coming away. Wisely or foolishly, the terror was that 
she had settled them, that she had cut herself off, that 
she stood alone. 

She paused in her going and a sudden sense of deso- 
lation seized her — actual, physical desolation. How 
far away she was at that very moment, and she had 
been warned! She turned and began to run, only a 
little way, then the road began a short ascent; she 
would walk up the hills and run down — run down all 
the descents, run whenever she could. She had not 
met anyone as she came, why need she meet anyone 
in going back ? It was Saturday afternoon. She ran 
303 


The Making of Jane 

faster; this was the worst of all afternoons. On and 
on she sped, the tangible fear doing away, for the time 
being, with all the unnamed sufferings driven in on her 
by Mrs. Saunders’s letter. The last long hill, then the 
Beaton place. She felt safer, even though this was 
the darkest part of the road. Then the Dunlap’s gate. 

As she laid her hand on the latch, she looked about 
her slowly. It was still quite light; people were only 
beginning to leave the town ; she had been very silly. 
The firelight flickering through the dining-room win- 
dows, the children’s voices as they played at the other 
end of the yard, her own windows open and staring 
like blind eyes, all brought back to her the long, long 
evening that lay before her. Why had she hurried? 
why had she been afraid? To have been murdered on 
the highway would at least have ended it all, would 
have given Mrs. Saunders such a text on wilfulness, 
on ingratitude. No, she would never let Mrs. Saun- 
ders have her as a text ; she must be cautious, she must 
succeed. She had been foolishly fearful on the high- 
road ; she had been thinking foolish thoughts just now 
about murder and the like; she could make an effort 
at least to control herself, her thoughts, and get 
through the evening. She had to live all her life with 
herself, with her past as a background, and the sooner 
she learned to do it the better. She would spend her 
evening in reading her one book — the condensed his- 
tory ; she would read until she was sleepy, then she 
would go to bed, and if she laid awake all night, she 
would bear that, too. The next day she would go 
to church, Methodist or Presbyterian — she had her 
304 


The Making of Jane 

choice, the Episcopal church having been burned down 
— and in the afternoon she would write to her father 
and to Laurence Creswick. She ought to be ashamed 
not to have answered his letter sooner. And she would 
take the letters to the office early on Monday morning 
and would carry out her idea of sending to Laurence 
Creswick for books; she would send the money-order, 
she would make a new beginning in self-control. 

Suddenly, as she leaned there on the gate, a picture 
of one of the little pious books that Mrs. Saunders had 
given her long ago, of readings for every day, came to 
her. She could remember the white and gold cover 
and the unholy scolding that had been given her be- 
cause of the first stain, a tear, on that cover. It rose 
up before her distinctly as a picture, and she could al- 
most have repeated the extract on “ Beginnings/’ The 
divisions of time being each a beginning, and she re- 
membered how weary it had made her feel, and how 
hopeless her beginnings of days and of hours had been. 
This Saturday would be a beginning, and next Mon- 
day would be another beginning, and all the Mondays 
after that, and all the Tuesdays, and all the Wednes- 
days, and all the hours, and minutes, and seconds of all 
these days. And the same little children would come 
every day, and the same preacher every Sunday, and 
the same laundress — she shook her head ; no, she could 
change the laundress. There was saving grace in that, 
and she flung open the gate, choking a sob down in her 
throat. 


305 


XIX 


“ O blest is he whose will is strong, 

He suffers, but he will not suffer long.’' 

J ANE granted herself no respite on Sunday, no put- 
ting aside of disagreeable things. All day long, 
whenever she passed her table, the two letters, 
from her father and from Mrs. Saunders, stared at her 
until she seemed to be absorbing them word by word. 
All Mrs. Saunders’s motives, the motives of all her life 
and being seemed to grow clear before the inner sight 
of the girl’s heart, and to be sinking sure, deep roots. 
She could not put into words what she felt ; she did not 
seem to be able to agree with herself categorically what 
Mrs. Saunders was, for, through all her growing real- 
ization of the woman, something seemed to elude her. 
It was as if there were some shadowy spot, which, if 
touched with light, would reveal the whole mechanism 
of motive, thought, and act; a lost key, which, once 
found, would unlock all the mystery; meanwhile she 
could not write to Mrs. Saunders; perhaps she never 
would again. She would not avoid thinking of Mrs. 
Saunders, however; would not avoid remembering; 
would have no dark places in her life where she feared 
to look. 

But when the afternoon came and she sat down to 
write to her father and to answer Laurence Creswick’s 
306 


The Making of Jane 

letter, the task was harder even than she had expected., 
Not to justify herself to her own parents, never to tell, 
of course not, and when she was done, she felt a sense 
of physical weariness out of all proportion to the ap- 
parent energy spent. The letter to Laurence Creswick 
would be hard, too, but from a different cause. She 
had decided that it should be cheerfully light ; the letter 
of a contented person. She went to the open window, 
she pushed up the fire that was scarcely necessary in 
the balmy weather, she rearranged the few books on 
the mantel-piece, and all the articles on the dressing- 
table, then she looked in the glass. She was pale, her 
eyes looked tired, there was a weak curve to the cor- 
ners of her mouth. She could not afford to have weak 
curves. She took her seat at the table in a determined 
manner, took up Laurence Creswick’s letter, and sud- 
denly a sentence stood out which made her eager to 
write. She had overlooked it, or had forgotten it, or 
it had loomed up because of the lurid light thrown out 
by Mrs. Saunders’s communication, and she seemed 
unable to write rapidly enough. 

“ I always think of the South as a wide, wild, lonely 
region,” Creswick wrote, “ sunburned in summer, and 
tourist-haunted in winter, with lynchings thrown in 
for excitement when times are dull, and I am wonder- 
ing what you find to do, and if your life is endurable.” 
She seized her pen ; no one who saw and talked to Mrs. 
Saunders and to Mark Witting must think of her in 
that way. She began with an explanation of the 
money-order which he would find enclosed, and the re- 
quest that he would select the books which he thought 
307 


The Making of Jane 

she most needed; then she went on, and her cheeks 
burned and her eyes were shining. “ As for my life,” 
she wrote, “ I am quite content, and think more of 
myself than I have ever been able to think before, al- 
most becoming conceited because I am self-supporting. 
Think of it ! I, a useless butterfly, rising to this height ! 
I used to be so weary of the eternal round, the eternal 
treadmill of society. I used to liken myself to the wax 
ladies in the shop-windows, always turning to show off 
my beautiful clothes. To misuse a poet — 

“ ‘ Her life was turning, turning, 

In mazes of heat and sound. 

But for peace her soul was yearning, 

And now peace laps her round.’ 

Turning, turning, that was it; seeing the same things, 
doing the same things at every turn, smiling the same 
smile. Sometimes I used to wish that I was a wax 
lady with a wax head and a wire heart. This sounds 
ungrateful, but it was only the old story of the square 
stick in the round hole. Mrs. Saunders has been al- 
ways a social success, and that was her ambition for me. 
Alas! I have repaid her in very ill fashion. In spite 
of it all, however, my contrition and the rest, I’m afraid 
that I would do it over again. My life is my own 
now, and I can go to the dogs even, if I like. And the 
South is not sunburned, nor wild, nor lonely, nor have 
I, as yet, been invited to any 4 At Homes,’ with lynch- 
ing as a feature of the entertainment. As for tour- 
ists, as it is not yet mid-winter, I cannot give you any 
statistics; but I am sure that this little town will not 
308 


The Making of Jane 

be over-run. My school numbers ten, boys and girls, 
ranging from twelve years down; they are very well- 
behaved, and as this is a select and private school, 
which I am not at liberty to enlarge, I shall have time 
in which to improve myself after the most pious fash- 
ion ; hence I send for books. I beg that you will not 
put yourself to any inconvenience about them, as any 
time will do. To you I owe so much, both as teacher 
and as friend, and be sure that I shall never forget it. 
Indeed, so distinctly do I remember it that I am asking 
of you one more friendly office. Give my regards to 
anyone who remembers me, and think of me as satisfied 
and successful; especially successful, for I happen to 
know that I am giving satisfaction just as a maid would 
or a cook; is it not funny?” She added some final 
phrases, signed her name, then read it over. It was 
not brilliant, but it answered her purposes. The tone 
was light and sufficiently cheerful ; she had said enough 
about her surroundings not to seem to conceal them, 
and if all of it were told to Mrs. Saunders, or if Mrs. 
Saunders should ever see the letter, she could not find 
in it anywhere a note of regret. 

Gradually, by the time that she had mailed the let- 
ters on Monday morning, it came to her that she had 
done more than she knew; that in trying to convince 
Laurence Creswick of her contentment, she had crys- 
tallized her own views ; had strengthened herself in her 
own estimation. She had come away for principle, and 
whether or not she ever accomplished anything, she 
had been right to assert herself ; and instead of keeping 
Mrs. Saunders’s letter as a scourge with which to disci- 
309 


The Making of Jane 

pline herself, she would destroy it. She would get it 
at once and burn it. No sooner said than done, she 
fetched it from her room and put it into the school- 
room fire, holding it down with the tongs, watching it 
as it curled, and fretted, and fumed in its red-hot bed. 

“ Have you not punished it sufficiently ? ” 

She turned, dropping the tongs with a clatter, and 
saw standing in the open door a man, with an amused 
smile on his lips, who looked as if he had stepped out 
of the world she had left. 

“ I have come to make your acquaintance,” he went 
on. “ I am Mr. Beaton.” They shook hands, then he 
picked up the tongs. “ Had you quite finished your 
auto-da-fe f ” 

“ Quite.” 

He bowed. “ Your place is bare,” he said, looking 
about appraisingly, “ and will be cold as the winter ad- 
vances. And you seem to be going on in the old South- 
ern way, a big fire and the door open ; do you like it ? ” 

“ It is picturesque.” 

“ You people from the North are always looking for 
the picturesque when you come South; and the old, 
and the quaint, and the barbarous ! ” 

“ I did not come with any special expectations.” 

“ Or missionary views ? ” smiling again the same 
amused smile. 

The color rose in Jane’s face. “ I have come as a 
pilgrim and a stranger,” she said. 

“ So ? and I have come to tell you that you have 
carte-blanche where Tena is concerned.” 

“ Thank you.” 


3io 


The Making of Jane 

“I am the grateful one,” he answered; “and now 
I will bid you good-morning.” And he went away, 
slapping his riding-boot with his whip. 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. Dunlap,” Jane heard him call; 
then through the window she saw him go up on the 
piazza and follow Mrs. Dunlap into the house. He 
was not there very long, then he walked down the 
bricked path to the front gate, carrying his hat in his 
hand. How well set his head was ; what an easy walk 
he had ; how sure he seemed of himself ; and when he 
put on his soft hat, pointed down over his eyes, he 
needed only a long plume to fulfil all her ideas of cava- 
liers. How quietly he had looked down to her, and 
around the school-room; and now that he was gone, 
she began to feel provoked; almost angry; why had 
she permitted him to patronize her? And her anger 
budded and bloomed into wrath when, later, Mrs. 
Dunlap walked in, holding some money in her hand. 
“ Your travelling expenses,” she said, extending the 
bills to Jane. 

Jane drew back. “ My ticket, Mrs. Fenser told me,” 
making no motion to take the money. 

“ Did she ? I didn’t understand. I beg your par- 
don ; but we agreed, at least Ned Beaton agreed, to pay 
your travelling expenses.” 

Jane answered, coldly, “ My bargain was my ticket.” 

“ I don’t know.” And Mrs. Dunlap looked trou- 
bled. “ Ned Beaton gave me this for your travelling 
expenses, as was agreed, I thought; won’t you take 
it?” 

Jane shook her head. “ I’ll take the price of my 
3il 


The Making of Jane 

ticket, Mrs. Dunlap.” And she began to write a re- 
ceipt. 

“ He won’t want a receipt,” Mrs. Dunlap demurred ; 
but Jane persisted. 

“ I have been trained to give and take receipts,” she 
said, with a backward glance at Mrs. Saunders, who 
had always insisted that she was teaching Jane business 
when she made her write and sign receipts for stamps, 
or any small sums of money she happened to give her, 
and at the end of the month to add them all up, reflect 
on the amount, then give a receipt in full. At the pres- 
ent moment Jane was angry; it did not matter with 
whom ; but that man with his clear, watchful eyes and 
his amused smile should not patronize her ; and as the 
children came in, poor Mrs. Dunlap went out, carrying 
the rejected money and puzzling over Jane. 

Jane had not meant to visit her irritation on Mrs. 
Dunlap, and, remembering Mrs. Dunlap’s worried ex- 
pression, she decided to explain ; and yet what explan- 
ation could she make ? Think as she would, she could 
find no motive that would have made Mrs. Fenser try 
to over-reach her ; would have made her offer less than 
she was authorized to offer ; there was nothing for her 
to lose or gain by it, so this man offering her her travel- 
ling expenses was almost insulting. He looked as if 
he were a very thoroughbred gentleman, but this at- 
tempt belied his looks and had made her angry. She 
was sorry to have troubled Mrs. Dunlap, but she could 
do nothing else. She was not to be patronized; no, 
never again, and this must be made apparent to Mr. 
Beaton. She would like to meet him again and define 
313 


The Making of Jane 

her position for him, and she must try to show kind 
Mrs. Dunlap that she had not been really angry. 

At the noon recess, when the children had gone to 
their dinners, and she was making ready to do the same 
thing, she saw Ned Beaton again dismounting at the 
gate. She waited a little for him to go into the house, 
but instead, he came straight toward the school-room. 

“ How do you do once more ? ” he said, putting his 
hat and whip down on the nearest table and coming to 
shake hands with her. “ I am going to the city, and 
I wanted to see again the size of this room for rug pur- 
poses.” 

Jane had shaken hands with him ; she could not help 
it ; and now the only thing she could find to say was : 
“ You are very kind.” 

“ To myself, yes,” taking measuring strides across 
the floor. “If you should take cold, or the school be 
broken up with influenza, I’d have Tena back on my 
hands. As to the color,” wheeling round and smiling 
cheerfully, “ you will do me a great kindness to select 
that.” 

“ Perhaps it would be better to let Mrs. Dunlap se- 
lect it ; she would know what will stand children’s feet 
better than I.” 

“ Perhaps ; and now for the same influenza reasons, 
I will count the windows for weather-strips.” 

“ I will go and call Mrs. Dunlap.” 

“One moment; I know that Mrs. Dunlap has no 
books, and I shall be so glad if you will go to my house 
and take what books you like. Don’t thank me ; it is 
all from the same motive of keeping you here ; of mak- 
313 


The Making of Jane 

ing you contented. I seem to feel some sense of duty 
to Tena, and having you here seems to pay it.” 

The dying fire of Jane’s indignation blazed up again 
at this. “ Tena is a very sensitive little child,” she 
said, crisply, “ and needs more than duty.” 

“ Yes; more’s the pity,” was answered quietly from 
where he measured a window. “ Women, many of 
them, are made quite wrong for what life gives them. 
They should have sound digestions and be stupid ; then, 
according to Carlyle, they could accomplish what they 
are obliged to do — ' front much.’ And I hope that you 
will educate Tena along practical lines. Persuade her 
that a woman need only to be sweet-tempered and 
handsome ; teach her to hold herself properly ; to walk 
well, and to be absolutely obedient to any man to whom 
she may belong.” 

“ Why do you not take her to Turkey ? ” Jane flashed. 

Beaton turned, smiling at her over his shoulder. 
“ It would not be bad,” he said. “ As to the rug, on 
general principles I suppose that red will do, and we 
need not trouble Mrs. Dunlap. I shall send her the 
key of the library; and let me tell you, she is a nice 
woman, but married down. A good man, but by no 
means her equal.” 

Jane was looking at him, was receiving a new im- 
pression of him. 

“ It seems to surprise you,” he went on ; “ you must 
remember how environment marks us. She was born 
in our class of life. Good-by; don’t worry if I furnish 
the school-room.” And again he went away whipping 
his boot. 


314 


The Making of Jane 

“ Our class of life,” Jane repeated ; then he had not 
meant to patronize her. She had been silly; she 
was always being silly; and she wondered if he had 
observed it. Very slowly she took her way into the 
house, and very carefully she told Mrs. Dunlap all that 
had been said concerning the furnishing and the books, 
quite as if it had been a message, which impression was 
confirmed in Mrs. Dunlap’s mind when, before school 
was over, a negro rode up, bringing her the key of the 
library, and a note, saying that she and Miss Ormonde 
could bring home a cart-load of books, if they liked; 
and on the servant’s informing them that Mr. Beaton 
had gone away, Mrs. Dunlap agreed to go that very 
afternoon. 

Never in her life had Jane been free in a library. 
Mrs. Saunders declared that books made much dust; 
Mr. Saunders had his club, and the room that was 
called the library was one of the handsome suite which 
was always on exhibition. There were some low 
shelves and some standard editions there, but absolutely 
stereotyped. Jane had read earnestly at odd times, but, 
of course, miscellaneously; now she found herself as 
eager as a hungry child before a pastry-cook’s window. 
The children were dressed in their best and Mrs. Dun- 
lap had put on her Sunday bonnet; and to Jane’s sur- 
prise she seemed somewhat excited. 

“ I am glad to come to the old house once more,” she 
said ; “ I’ve not been here since I was a girl. There’s 
only a sort of housekeeper here now, and of course I 
could not come to see her. Ned Beaton brought her 
here when he brought Tena ; she keeps the house, waits 
315 


The Making of Jane 

on him when he is here, and takes care of Tena all the 
time. She never goes anywhere, and we may not see 
her ; but she may see us, and that kind of person always 
judges by clothes, you know. My mother used to 
know the ladies well. Poor Ned,” she went on, “ he has 
not had half a chance; his mother was the young second 
wife of an old man with two old-maid daughters. The 
mother died when Ned was born, and the old man soon 
after. As soon as they could, the sisters sent Ned to 
school, then to college, and from there he took himself 
off to travel. The old sisters died, and Ned came home 
to find himself very poor indeed. He tried to plant, 
but he knew nothing about it, and was actually measur- 
ing off certain land to sell, when he found a very supe- 
rior grade of coal on it. That was four years ago; 
now he is building a town over at his mines, and is 
making money hand over fist. We’d never heard of 
any marriage or anything of that kind till he brought 
Tena home last September, and now we don’t know 
anything about it; and some of the mothers did not 
know about joining in to have the school, if she was to 
come; and we don’t like the children to be too much 
with her; she might teach them things. I notice she 
sticks close to you almost all the time, Miss Jane.” 

“Yes; and she is a nice little child.” 

“ Ned’s mother was a sweet woman,” Mrs. Dunlap 
went on, “ and her life was none too easy, I think, and 
I’ve not been in the house since before the ladies died. 
My, but they were prim ! They never would enter any 
church but the Episcopal, but as sure as that was open, 
they’d come driving into town and walk up the aisle 
316 


The Making of Jane 

dressed in the same kind of clothes I remembered them 
wearing when I was a child. They were handsome 
ladies, and it was pitiful how soon they followed each 
other in death ; and I’ve always thought that the burn- 
ing down of the church with all the family memorials 
in it hurt them. We don’t want the old name to die 
out, but we are awfully sorry that Ned’s find of coal 
is going to ruin Stony Ridge. He’s got a big company 
behind him, so there’s money to do what he likes with, 
and the people in Stony Ridge won’t wake up. Mr. 
Dunlap’s forever talking to them about it, but they keep 
the same old stock in the shops from year to year till 
it almost falls to pieces. And over in Newtown they 
have a shop right now that beats anything we’ve ever 
had; and of course people go over there to buy. I 
don’t think that Ned Beaton wants to ruin this town, 
but Mr. Dunlap says he’s going to do it sure.” 

Jane had never heard Mr. Dunlap say a half-dozen 
sentences in the whole time that she had been in the 
Dunlap household ; but from the numerous quotations 
made by Mrs. Dunlap, she supposed that they 'must fre- 
quently hold secret sessions ; and she found herself 
wondering how the conversations opened. Idle spec- 
ulations, that were interrupted by a sigh from her com- 
panion as they paused in front of the Beaton gate. 

“ Yes, I’m glad to come to this old house once more,” 
she said ; “ very glad.” 

“ It is a pretty place.” And Jane looked about her 
almost as she had done on the first occasion of her 
entering. “ It looks like a home.” 

“ Well, it isn’t. I suppose we must come in at the 

317 


The Making of Jane 

front door. Ah ! there’s Tena. So, Tena, we’ve come 
over to look at your father’s books. Will you let us 
in? See? I have the key to the library; he sent it to 
me. Yes, I know the old hall well.” 

Jane looked about her curiously. She did not re- 
member the outside of her home, but certain things 
within had made strong pictures in her memory — the 
nursery, the dining-room, and the breakfast-table, with 
the sunshine coming in and touching the corner of the 
end where her mother always sat, and from the white 
table-cloth, and from the old silver a cheerful whiteness 
had seemed to be reflected all about the room and on 
her mother’s face, and beyond, there had seemed always 
a big fire; and the library that had seemed all books. 
And behind each of these memories there were big 
windows, making frames for swaying trees and long 
swaths of gray moss. These pictures came up to her 
now as she entered the hall that seemed familiar ; very 
broad and going straight through the house, with a 
stairway at the far end that turned half way up ; and 
the banisters were little and round. Perhaps all South- 
ern houses of the same period were built after the same 
pattern. The very smell of the library as the door 
opened, the bookish, leathery smell, seemed to bring 
again forgotten things. A feeling of free delight took 
possession of her, as if she were getting back into some 
element that was natural to her, and she touched the 
books softly in friendly fashion. Any or all of them 
were hers for the nonce ; she could rummage and read 
at her own pleasure, and she seemed suddenly to be- 
come possessed of a greedy desire for knowledge ; she 
318 


The Making of Jane 

felt as if in not being a student she had missed her voca- 
tion ; and she need not dread the winter any longer. 

The Dunlap children, with Tena, had followed her 
in and now stood looking about them open-mouthed. 

“ We used to have books, too,” Mrs. Dunlap said 
meditatively, “ but my mother had to sell them ; we’d 
better have kept them, they brought so little.” And 
she walked about slowly, picking up one book after 
another. Presently she went out into the hall, the chil- 
dren following, and Tena, who seemed to feel her po- 
sition as hostess. Left alone, Jane wandered from 
shelf to shelf, taking out a book here and there and put- 
ting them back with ever slower and slower motions. 
She was so ignorant outside of a certain beaten track 
that she did not know what to select, and felt her pleas- 
ure ebbing away. It was humiliating ; it would be best 
for her to go back to Laurence Creswick’s advice and 
read history. 

She turned to the study table for the first time, ob- 
serving it closely. All the fittings were of the old- 
fashioned, simple kind, and everything in profusion; 
everything in easy reach ; a sort of impatient, careless 
order pervading all, and every sign of recent occupa- 
tion. She wanted a pencil; there were all kinds, and 
paper in great piles. She had been accustomed to 
wealth ; to the best things ; but not to this, that she was 
sure Mrs. Saunders had meant when she used to speak 
of barbaric Southern profusion. This was surely 
what she had meant, and if Jane liked it for nothing 
else, she liked it for the reason that Mrs. Saunders had 
not liked it. She said to herself that there seemed to 
319 


The Making of Jane 

be more freedom in this sort of thing; and instead of 
taking a piece of paper just large enough, as Mrs. 
Saunders had trained her to do, she took a whole sheet 
to make her little list, and in the same spirit wrote it 
very large, dating it and signing it and leaving it in a 
conspicuous place. Yes, she liked the look of the pro- 
fusion, the feeling, and she nodded to it as she gathered 
up the books she had selected. 

Outside she found Mrs. Dunlap seated on the piazza 
talking to Tena, while her own children were playing 
in the old garden. Knowing her motive in keeping the 
child with her, Jane felt a little irritation ; it seemed to 
strike in the face the generous freedom which Ned 
Beaton’s study table had shown, and she took the 
child’s hand. “ You have a dear old home, Tena,” she 
said, “ and such a lot of books. I’ll have to teach you 
very fast so that you can enjoy them.” 

The child’s face lighted up. “ He lent me one the 
other day, full of pictures.” 

“ Your father?” Mrs. Dunlap questioned. 

The child nodded, looking at her questioner as if 
some instinct told her all that Mrs. Dunlap felt toward 
her. 

Jane drew her nearer still. “ You must bring it to 
the school,” she said, “ and I will read it to you.” 
Then they walked away, Mrs. Dunlap observing every- 
thing about her slowly, reminiscently, and Jane glanc- 
ing back to where Tena looked so small standing in 
the big doorway. 

The walk home was rather silent, for each child hav- 
ing relieved Jane of a book, seemed to feel the respon- 

320 


The Making of Jane 

sibility, and walked quietly, while Mrs. Dunlap seemed 
to have lost the power of speech. She had stepped back 
into her own place for a moment, Jane thought, remem- 
bering Ned Beaton’s speech that Mrs. Dunlap had mar- 
ried down, and remembering, also, the speech that they 
had sold all their books ; she had stepped back, and she 
is sorry, and the thought received confirmation from 
the way in which Mrs. Dunlap looked about her and 
the sigh that she drew as she entered her own house. 
Later, Jane saw her standing close beside her husband, 
on whose kindly, stolid face there was a queer look. 
They were not a demonstrative couple. 


321 


XX 


“ We are such stuff 

As dreams are made on ; and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep." 

N ED BEATON, through his library, had given 
Jane a way of escape from Mrs. Saunders and 
her world, and she had availed herself of it. Laurence 
Creswick, too, had sent her advice and some carefully 
selected books, adding that, having secured a teacher’s 
discount for her, there was still some money to her 
credit, which he would invest later on. Every day 
the school; every afternoon, in fair weather, a walk 
with the children ; every evening a big fire and a pile 
of books, and time melted away. 

After the first visit to the library, the rug for the 
school-room made the next date ; then some wall-maps 
made a stir in the little circle, and the children began 
to look on Tena differently. A large blackboard and 
some weather-strips completed her elevation among 
the children, while the parents began to speak of the 
school as an institution quite beyond anything that 
Stony Ridge had ever had; and the people who had 
spoken of it lightly, began now to say openly that if the 
Episcopalians could have such a fine school, it was a 
pity that they could not rebuild their burned church 
and call a clergyman ; but under no circumstances, not 
322 


The Making of Jane 

even if they were Episcopalians, would they be be- 
holden to such a worldling as Ned Beaton. Nor could 
they understand the Tomkins, who were good Metho- 
dists, being caught in such company. 

The school went on, however, and the luxuries, com- 
ing one after another, with notes to Mrs. Dunlap, she 
began, like Tena, to attain to an elevation. She bought 
the best note-paper which the town afforded, for the 
purpose of answering these notes, letting them run 
into gossipy letters, as the mere fact of writing brought 
back to her an aroma from her earlier life and station. 
Occasionally she would bring home a book for herself, 
and began to assume a more protective air toward Jane, 
with a little mystery attached to it, as if she were 
mothering some hidden scheme; an air that puzzled 
Jane when she thought of it. One wet day, however, 
after the weather-strips arrived and had been found by 
the carpenter to be greatly in excess of the needs of the 
school-room, Jane, passing through the hall noiselessly, 
because of her overshoes, heard Mrs. Dunlap saying to 
her husband, “ I’ll put them in Miss Jane’s windows ; 
there’s where he’d rather have them.” She had reached 
the top of the stairs before she realized the trend of the 
words, and it was not until the carpenter and Mrs. 
Dunlap, with the remaining weather-strips, knocked 
for entrance that she understood completely Mrs. Dun- 
lap’s view of things. 

“ These were left over from the school-room, Miss 
Jane, and I thought I’d make you comfortable.” 

“ I am comfortable,” Jane said, quickly, “ and do not 
care for the strips.” 


323 


The Making of Jane 

“ But you don’t know how cold it will get.” 

“ I am from the North, you know,” her mind fleeting 
back to the almost tropic heat of her cousin’s house, 
“ and do not mind cold. Why not put them in the 
dining-room? ” 

Mrs. Dunlap looked crestfallen. “ We are so anx- 
ious to keep you,” she said, simply; “ and I know Ned 
Beaton would be glad to have your windows made 
tight too.” 

“ You and Mr. Beaton are both very kind.” And 
Jane pushed up a window, as if to show how little she 
heeded the weather. The momentary fear that these 
people thought that what Ned Beaton was doing for 
the school-room was being done for her, had been ex- 
ceedingly unpleasant ; the suggestion that it arose from 
a fear that she would leave unless made comfortable, 
was quite another thing; but she could not persuade 
Mrs. Dunlap to use the strips anywhere else, and the 
next time that they went to the Beaton place the re- 
maining strips were carried over carefully by Joey, and 
laid on the study table. 

So with these little breaks, that took the proportions 
of decided excitements, Christmas was reached with its 
great expectations of joy, and its absolute certainty of 
melancholy. Jane had been entertained by each of her 
patrons in turn, and had gently made them understand 
that unless they looked on Christmas holiday as a neces- 
sity, she did not desire it. She feared even a thought 
of a break in the routine that was proving such a balm. 
Seven days to do with as she pleased ; seven days bar- 
ren of duties; seven empty days like seven eyeless 
324 


The Making of Jane 

ghosts — how awful ! She must save herself ; and she 
put it quite playfully that Christmas eve and day and 
New Year’s day would be quite enough, she thought, 
and she was sure that the children were happier at 
school. 

“ And each one of you can bring your presents to 
the school,” she said guilefully to the children ; “ and 
we’ll have such fun ! ” 

And so it was arranged, and she made careful pro- 
vision that for each child there should be a surprise on 
his or her table ; what was for her solace should not be 
for their discomfort. But in spite of the occupation she 
had provided for herself, the season brought its pain. 
Her father’s letters had come as regularly as of yore, 
but there was in each one the same tone of reserve that 
there had been in the first; each letter had hurt her, 
but the Christmas letter brought a double wound, in 
that it brought a check. She did not dare return it, 
for the admonition accompanying it had been so stern. 
“You are an ever-present anxiety to us,” he wrote, 
“ so that you must allow me to ease my mind by arming 
you against one danger, at least.” And the check was 
for a hundred dollars. 

“ And he is getting tired and old, and no one to help 
him yet,” she said ; and for the moment she felt that it 
would have been better to have stayed with Mrs. Saun- 
ders, and have borne anything. Her mother’s letter 
put it a little differently. “ We send our Christmas 
present together, dear child, and you must accept it, in 
order to set our minds at rest.” Then, as if to show 
her why it was that they could not understand, why it 
325 


The Making of Jane 

was that they were troubled about her, the mother en- 
closed the latest letter from Marion, filled with balls 
and operas, plays, receptions, dresses, and jewels, 
speaking here and there of Mark Witting as if he were 
an intimate visitor, and at the last a casual mention 
of Laurence Creswick having come to town for the 
winter, and that she liked him so much. Descriptions 
that at home had made Emily, and Ann, and Polly al- 
most weep with desire, and that up in Stony Ridge re- 
vealed things to Jane. 

The other trial was a letter from Mr. Saunders. 
Regularly each week Jane had written to him to the 
club, but never until now had she received a line ; and 
now, like her father’s letter, it also contained a check 
that she could not return. “If you had only whis- 
pered ‘ I am not happy,’ I would have taken you home,” 
he wrote ; “ not that I am blaming you ; it was all my 
fault. I loved you, my child, and I was weak about 
disturbing anything, that was all. I should have 
watched more carefully, have acted more decidedly; 
but through all you were a patient, gentle, too gentle, 
and loyal child. Make me happier by keeping the en- 
closed, so that I shall know that you are not in want. 
I have never been able to write to your father, because 
I feel that I have betrayed my trust. God bless you.” 

A note from Mrs. Saunders enclosed a smaller 
check, but this was no problem. Jane’s heart was 
so sore, her position seemed to be so unnecessarily bit- 
ter and so entirely due to Mrs. Saunders, that her meas- 
ures with her were sharp and swift. She wrote “ Can- 
celled ” across the face of the check ; she had heard 
326 


The Making of Jane 

her Cousin Henry tell of doing that, and enclosed it 
in an empty envelope ; then she re-read Mrs. Saunders’s 
note, full of cooings for the “ Holy Season, and Peace 
and Good Will, and God’s best blessing that had been 
granted her in dearest Marion.” And as she went 
swiftly down to the post-office, a little feeling against 
her sister began to rise in her heart. 

It was not a happy time, though everyone tried to 
make the stranger welcome and at home, and Jane did 
her part also ; and on the clear, cold afternoon of Christ- 
mas-day she took the children out to walk, in order to 
relieve Mrs. Dunlap, who was weary with the unusual 
amount of supervision required by the cook because of 
the unusual amount and variety of the dinner prepared. 
Jane was full of restless energy, drawn from many 
sources, and as reading was impossible, she suggested 
the walk, at which the children jumped eagerly. 

The sky was clear, the air was like wine, and the sun 
would set red. The bare trees stood up like etchings 
where they were few, and in purple masses where they 
were many. The fields were brown and empty, the 
ruts along the road were frozen hard, the rain-pools 
had each its little film of ice. Nothing was stirring. 
The town was all by the fire after the heavy dinners, 
save where, far away, a few stray fire-crackers were 
being set off. Joey sent some longing looks in that 
direction as Jane turned to the road up the hill, but as 
he himself had a pack in one pocket, and matches in 
another, he followed without demur. 

To the children Jane seemed as she had been that 
first afternoon, when she had astonished them by pro- 
327 


The Making of Jane 

posing races. She proposed one now ; but though the 
children started well, Christmas dinners such as they 
had disposed of were against success, and their pant- 
ings caused Jane to stop, and when they once more 
caught up, to suggest telling stories. This was more 
soothing, and they listened with patience at least. But 
Jane herself did not find this pastime suited to her 
mood; the stories dragged, seeming as overburdened 
as the children. She had made a mistake in bringing 
the children, and yet being alone was not what she de- 
sired. In honor of the day, she had foolishly put on 
the best street dress that she had brought, and which 
she had not worn since the winter before, and it gave 
her strange feelings in the empty country road. It be- 
longed to other times and other regions, regions where 
Marion would now be resting before the dinner they 
were to have that night, the approaching glories of 
which she had described in the letter forwarded to 
Jane, and her dress of pure white, and the pearls she 
would wear. And Mark Witting would be there, and 
Laurence Creswick 

“ And what did the princess do then? ” Nannie asked, 
Jane’s voice having ceased. 

“ Why — of course — why she gave a great dinner ; 
people always do on Christmas, you know, and asked 
all the young gentlemen who were bachelors and who 
lived by themselves in clubs ” 

A low laugh broke the stillness through which Jane’s 
voice had sounded, and looking up she saw Ned Bea- 
ton leaning on his gate. 

“ What a charitable princess,” he said, coming out ; 
328 


The Making of Jane 

“ and may I wish you a Merry Christmas ? Well, chil- 
dren, have you had a fine dinner? You look so.” 

“ Plum-pudding,” Joey said. 

“ Turkey,” Mamie went on. 

“We always have plum-pudding and turkey for 
Christmas,” Nannie added, reprovingly. 

“ Lucky children ; I haven’t had any.” 

“ If mother had known ” Nannie began. 

“ She would have sent for me ? I am sure of that, 
and I will come next Christmas. May I send Joey to 
the house for Tena, Miss Ormonde, and may we go 
to walk, too? Run along, Joey, and we’ll walk slowly. 
I’m afraid that you spoil your scholars, Miss Ormonde ; 
Tena tells me such tales.” 

“ I have given them no holiday.” 

“ At which Tena seems to be delighted. I thought 
that I was the only child on earth who had ever pre- 
ferred school to holiday, not because of scholarship, 
please, but because of companionship. But won’t you 
continue the story of that beneficent being who sent 
out into the highways and hedges of clubdom and gath- 
ered in the poor bachelors for dinner ? ” 

Jane laughed. “ Probably you know more about 
that than I do.” 

“ I do not seem to remember any such princess ; but 
then, I’ve been a wanderer on the face of the earth, 
and only now with sufficient gilding to enable me to 
catch and reflect the lights of society. But what hap- 
pened when the bachelors arrived? did one have on a 
wedding garment, and did he straightway fall down 
at the feet of the young woman whom the benign prin- 
cess was chaperoning ? ” 


329 


The Making of Jane 

“ Of course ; and if he has gilding enough to reflect 
all the society lights, the young woman will say yes.” 

“ Indeed ? I had expected you to rebuke me.” 

“ For the ways of the world ? ” 

“ And you put it in the present tense, if he has gild- 
ing?” 

“ She will say yes. To-night is Christmas, you see, 
and the dinner. I am telling one of the realistic stories 
of to-day. Princesses and titles are no longer strange, 
and gilding is absurdly common.” 

“ So much so that you despise it.” 

Jane looked up quickly. “ It might be more true to 
say that my contempt of it is a phase of sour grapes.” 

“ And so you have come down into the great South- 
ern wilderness to gather it.” 

“ It seems so.” 

“ Teaching a little country school at starvation 
prices.” 

“ I had turkey and plum-pudding for dinner.” 

“ But honestly, how do you stand it ? ” They were 
walking slowly, waiting for Joey and Tena, and Ned 
Beaton had lowered his voice. They were of the same 
world, and he wondered at her patience, and, as on 
closer inspection, he had not found her to be cross- 
eyed, nor with a broken nose, he was trying to find 
some reason for her presence in this lonely country 
road where they walked. She or her people must have 
lost their money suddenly, and she had taken up the 
first thing she had found to do, or she had been dis- 
owned or driven out in some way ; something was quite 
out of order. 


330 


The Making of Jane 

“ There is nothing in my life here that is hard to 
bear,” Jane answered, quietly. “ The children are 
good, and everyone is very kind to me.” 

“ But the sameness, the dulness, the lack of all the 
delicacies of life, of all the finer touches, all the lux- 
uries ? ” 

“ In the life that I left,” Jane said, slowly, “ there 
was nothing, and all the while I was pretending that 
it was something; for the rest, my digestion seems to 
be good and you have made the school-room quite lux- 
urious.” 

“ You are plucky.” 

Just here Tena came flying up the road, Joey follow- 
ing at a heavier pace. “ Oh, Miss Jane ! ” she cried, 
and clasped her about the waist. 

“ Merry Christmas, Tena.” And Jane, straighten- 
ing up from a tighter embrace than the first, found Ned 
Beaton watching her with an amused smile. 

“ Run on, Tena,” he said, “ you and the children.” 
He now could give the order, having one in the group. 
“ Do you submit to that, or to ten such, every morning? 
You are more plucky even than I thought.” 

“ Not quite ten, and not every day ; but they are nice 
children, and I have an abiding sympathy for children.” 

“ It seems to me that they have a pretty good time.” 

“ Did you have ? ” looking directly at him. 

“ As good as I deserved, I fancy. You remember 
what Carlyle says about the estimate we make for our- 
selves of what we think we deserve? I took that to 
heart early in life, and never since then have I looked 
for anything but what I could get of myself. What 
331 


The Making of Jane 

we secure, that is ours and that we deserve ; and I never 
expect anything more; no luck, no grace of tender 
mercy.” 

“ It is a hard creed.” 

“ Rub a spot to soreness, and Nature throws up a 
callosity.” 

“ Does that insure against suffering ? ” 

“ To suffer is one of the most useless things in life,” 
looking down into Jane’s eyes and smiling. “ Don’t 
suffer; you can control it, you know. To quote once 
more : ‘ To those who think, life is a farce.’ ” 

“ * To those who think, life is a farce,’ ” Jane repeat- 
ed, and looked away across the fields. 

“ Don’t you see? ” Beaton asked. 

“ Yes.” 

They had reached the top of the hill, and Jane 
stopped, looking out over the wide, rolling view. 
Nothing stirring, moving, not a sound, save some dis- 
tant cow-bells. A film of smoke lay over the town, 
and all the yellow line of the clayey road could be clear- 
ly followed from far beyond, up to their very feet. 

“ I wonder the desolation does not kill you.” 

“ If I cannot grasp anything else,” Jane answered, 
“ I do not deserve anything else. And I am just now 
told that such vagaries as suffering can be controlled.” 

Beaton laughed. “ You ought to be a good teacher,” 
he said, “ you are such an apt scholar.” 

“ Thank you. But seriously, you have done much 
for me in lending me your library.” 

“It is a pleasure, I assure you; but, by the way,” 
they had turned and were walking down the hill, “ I 
332 


The Making of Jane 

found some unusual things on my study table — 
weather-strips and lists of books ; why ? ” 

“ Mrs. Dunlap put the strips there because they are 
yours ; and I put the lists there, that you might know 
of the safety of your books. ,, 

“ What a lot of trouble, and what desperate honesty! 
Could no place be found for the weather-strips ? I am 
quite sure that cyclones blow in around your windows, 
for instance, I seem to hear them rattling at this very 
moment.” 

“ I did not wish them.” 

“ Because at that time you were ignorant. If you 
go on sleeping in a tornado you’ll soon be having neu- 
ralgia, and be obliged to wear night-caps ; fancy ! ” 

Jane laughed. “ Thank you for the mirth,” she 
said. 

“ Christmas makes you lonely ? it does not me, be- 
cause I have grown to like loneliness; though I must 
confess to being pleased this afternoon when I saw you 
and the children coming up the road. It amused me, 
too, to hear a person rolling in the wealth of fifteen 
dollars a month speaking about such poor things as 
princesses, and fashionable clubs, and idle bachelors 
waiting to be provided for. So I was rude enough to 
laugh; but I am continually wondering why Mrs. 
Fenser screwed you so. She must have done it simply 
from love of a bargain — the bargain habit — there are 
such creatures.” 

“ You forget the board and washing.” 

“ And the railway ticket. You must have been very 
ignorant of the worth of things to have taken it.” 

333 


The Making of Jane 

A sudden flash of pleasure had come to Jane at the 
mention of Mrs. Fenser and her methods ; he had not 
tried to give her anything! How had she imagined 
it ? and she looked up brightly. “ I am only a woman, 
you know,” she said ; “ and women don’t make fort- 
unes; they only make livings.” 

“If the world were in order, they would not have to 
make anything.” 

Jane laughed. “ You got out of that beautifully,” 
she said ; “ but really, you should have been a Turk ; 
your ideas of my sex are wretched ! ” And she laid 
her hand on the gate that he did not seem inclined to 
open. 

“Won’t you come in?” Mrs. Dunlap called from 
where she had opened the front door. 

“ Not this evening, thank you,” he answered, “ but 
I am coming to dine with you next Christmas ; Nannie 
has asked me.” And taking Tena’s hand, he went 
away. 


334 


XXI 


“ The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands ; 

We should only spoil it by trying to explain it.” 

J ANE’S knowledge had taken its seat beside her 
ignorance, and by comparison it looked very 
small. Her little knowledge announced that 
checks were not meant for keepsakes, and that it was 
better to deposit money than to keep it in an old 
stocking. Whereupon her big ignorance demanded, 
promptly, “ How do you deposit money?” 

Mrs. Saunders’s business training had reached only 
to the point of keeping Jane well aware of how much 
Mrs. Saunders gave her, training that did not avail 
Jane at this crisis. She did not wish to ask the Dun- 
laps, for it did not seem wise to reveal her ignorance 
to people who would not understand. Ned Beaton 
would understand it perfectly, but she did not know 
when she would see him again. To reveal her stupid- 
ity to her father would be to make him more uneasy 
than ever; it would be the same thing with Mr. Saun- 
ders, so that her only resource seemed to be Laurence 
Creswick. He knew how wofully helpless she was in 
one or two directions at least, and it would not shock 
him very much to discover one or two, or even a 
dozen, further instances of her inability to do ordinary 
things without instruction. 

335 


The Making of Jane 

And he, receiving her letter late one snowy after- 
noon, read it in his luxuriously furnished rooms, and 
smiled happily. How naturally she was turning to 
him; how sweetly and simply she wrote, so sure of 
his interest, so confident of his faithfulness. Looking 
into the glowing depths of the fire, he could see so 
many visions of her — graceful, slender, fresh, and 
charming; always gentle, and always an appealing 
look in her eyes. He had never entirely understood 
her flight; he had never been entirely satisfied as to 
what it was that had driven her out into the world, 
although, of course, Mrs. Saunders and matrimony 
had to do with it. Ever since that day when he and 
Jane had walked together up in the hills and had dis- 
cussed the quality of nobility; ever since Mrs. Saun- 
ders had catechized him on the afternoon of Mrs. Cum- 
ming’s tea; ever since that night at the concert, when 
Jane had defied Mrs. Saunders; ever since then he 
had been studying Mrs. Saunders. 

To him she was unfailingly kind and, to the best of 
her ability, charming; but charm she never so wisely, 
he never forgot the look on Jane’s face as she had said 
to him that autumn day, that seemed generations ago : 

Play school-master, and let me send to you for a 
reference,” and though she had laughed, it had been 
a pitifully quavering little laugh, and her dear eyes 
had been full of tears. Yes, charmed she never so 
wisely, Jane looked at him always from somewhere 
behind Mrs. Saunders. 

This second sister seemed to be devoted to her 
cousin, and the cousin to her, and she was a pretty 

336 


The Making of Jane 

creature, in a diminutive, childlike way, but she was 
not Jane. This one had a steely brightness, a butter- 
fly lightness, a kittenish love for soft things, for the 
cream of material things. He liked her — it was more 
than like, he was becoming fond of her in a brotherly 
way. He smiled happily over this phrase, it pleased 
him. Eight sisters and brothers Marion said she had, 
and country life in the South was dull beyond com- 
parison, and she had drawn her slender finger across 
her lovely throat, and had nodded in a bewitching 
way, saying: “ Janey and her independent fad saved 
my life.” 

Then Mrs. Saunders had sighed and added : “ I had 
sent for you before I knew Janey’s plans, dear, so that 
Janey did not save your life.” 

One day Mrs. Saunders had asked him, abruptly: 
“Are Jane’s letters to you cheerful?” And he could 
not be sure whether she was seeking knowledge con- 
cerning the correspondence or if she were really anx- 
ious as to the girl’s welfare. He had not been able 
to decide, but had answered according to Jane’s own 
instructions, that she was quite satisfied and also 
successful. Now he could inform her further, if he 
thought best, that Jane had so far advanced in pros- 
perity as to open a bank account. He must answer 
the letter at once, however, before he dressed for din- 
ner, so that she could put her money away safely. But 
think of a creature so ill-supplied with knowledge 
starting out to fight the world! It would do a boy 
good; a few hard knocks would put him in his place 
and teach him things; but a girl, a gentle, tender girl! 

337 


The Making of Jane 

It hurt him to think of it, and tempted him to go 
down and see for himself. She was so plucky, she’d 
never cry “ enough! ” — never; she’d smile to the very 
last. On the other hand, she was so honest she would 
never deceive, so that he must believe that so far she 
had been fortunate. He wondered a little bit about 
this man who seemed to be so busy furnishing the 
school-room; still, as his child was in the school, and 
he the rich man of the community, he was probably 
posing a little as general benefactor, and, of course, 
the child meant that there was a wife somewhere. 

He sighed; if the girl would only write that she 
was sad or sorrowful, or give a hint of loneliness, he 
would go at once and persuade her into a life-long 
haven. Instead, she wrote of the books she was read- 
ing, and the big wood-fire, and the Beatons and their 
old place, and of Mrs. Dunlap’s motherly kindness, 
giving no sign that she needed either help or com- 
fort, or that she had any wish for any other haven 
than the one she had reached. He often wondered 
what Mr. Saunders thought of it all. He had changed 
a good deal of late, seemed depressed, and had become 
very silent. And Mark Witting seemed to be paying 
the same kind of attention to Marion that he had 
used to pay Jane, only perhaps a little more, and he 
wondered if it meant anything. In fact, everything 
was irritatingly like the winter before, only that Marion 
had been put into Jane’s place. 

With all these thoughts in his mind that night at 
the opera, one which brought Jane more forcibly than 
ever before him, he watched Marion, who was looking 
338 


The Making of Jane 

about in her quick, bird-like way, now and then nod- 
ding gayly, and always smiling. Jane would have 
been absorbed. At last he said to the girl: “Your 
sister was devoted to this opera.” 

“ Was she? and think of her down in the corn- 
fields! She must be nearly dead.” 

“ On the contrary, she seems to be quite cheerful.” 

“ You hear regularly? ” looking up quickly. 

“ No, but your sister is kind enough to answer my 
letters.” 

“ Well, she does not write to me any more, nor to 
cousin.” 

“ My dear Marion,” Mrs. Saunders put in, gently, 
“ Jane has not answered my last letter as yet, but that 
is all. You are giving Mr. Creswick a wrong impres- 
sion of your sister. She communicated with us all 
most dutifully, she had been too well trained to neglect 
such things. I must confess, however, that I do not 
see how she endures her life, for she is not even on 
the coast, but up in the hill-country. Yet she seems 
cheerful, does she not, Mr. Creswick? ” 

“Very much so indeed, and successful into the bar- 
gain,” he added, remembering Jane’s charge. 

“Successful in a country school?” and Marion 
shook her head. “ It is such an odd fad.” 

“ I agree to that,” and Mrs. Saunders patted Mari- 
on’s hand. “ It is odd, but you must be careful, dear, 
not to give a wrong impression of your sister, for we, 
Mr. Creswick and I, have known her, and you have 
not, and we have loved her very much indeed.” 

“ Have you ? ” and the girl looked up into Cres- 
wick’s eyes archly. 


339 


The Making of Jane 

He nodded, smiling. 

“ And did Mr. Witting love her, too? ” she persisted, 
turning to Mark. 

Mrs. Saunders laughed softly. “ Of course, dear, 
we all loved her; Jane was very charming.” 

“ Did you? ” Marion persisted, still looking at Mark. 

“ Absolutely,” Mark answered, with a gravity in his 
tone that seemed strange to Creswick. 

“Then why did she run away? Everybody loving 
her could not hold her?” 

“ Perhaps there was too much love,” Mark sug- 
gested, “perhaps we were jealous, were ready to tear 
her to pieces among us, causing her to decide that 
discretion is the better part of valor.” 

“Well, I wish she had stayed,” Marion went on, a 
little impatiently, “ I would have liked to see all the 
perfection I am hearing so much about. Even the 
servants tell me of her, and as for the old ladies who 
come to see cousin ” — looking appealingly at Cres- 
wick — “ they sing her praises continually, and I’m al- 
ways feeling that they are drawing comparisons in her 
favor. It is trying.” 

“ You are so different, dear,” Mrs. Saunders said, 
smoothly, “ that no comparison can be drawn.” 

“Very true,” and Creswick nodded again to the 
spoiled child, “ you are absolutely different.” Then 
Marion’s words caused him to wonder suddenly if 
Jane had known of her sister’s coming; surely she 
would have mentioned it, and he asked, abruptly: 
“ Did Miss Ormonde know that her sister was coming 
to you this winter? ” 


340 


The Making of Jane 

Mrs. Saunders shook her head sadly. “ I was keep- 
ing it as a pleasant surprise for her ” 

“ Cousin telegraphed for me the very day that Janey 
left,” Marion put in; “ wasn’t it queer?” 

“ Very queer,” Mark answered. 

“ It was queer,” Mrs. Saunders agreed. “ The ser- 
vant who took my telegram and letter to Mr. Or- 
monde to the office brought back Jane’s note of fare- 
well. It was very strange, and yet not too strange, 
for Janey, you remember, Mr. Creswick,” turning 
suddenly to him, “ had not looked well, nor had she 
seemed herself for some time; for all the time that 
you and she were reading together; from the middle 
of the summer, indeed; and my thought was to sur- 
prise her out of her lethargy. Our plans happened 
to climax on the same day, that was all. Poor Jane! ” 
Creswick had been wondering what Mark Witting’s 
extreme gravity had meant, what had made him so 
earnest in answering Marion’s half-bantering question, 
when Mrs. Saunders’s announcement concerning Jane’s 
lethargy called him back to the conversation. He had 
never associated Jane and lethargy, but all the rest of 
the story seemed to hang together, and he could only 
abuse fate that the respective plans, as Mrs. Saunders 
had called them, had climaxed on the same day, and 
so had taken Jane away. Jane had seemed a little 
different last summer, but he would not have called 
it lethargic. At all events she seemed now to have 
fully aroused herself, and he was still more sure of 
this when in February he received a letter from Jane 
which astonished him beyond measure. She was mak- 

341 


The Making of Jane 

ing up her mind to open a little shop, she announced, 
and wanted to know if he would kindly send her the 
addresses of some of the cheap places in New York, 
so that she could open negotiations. 

“ I am going to ask you not to mention this,” she 
wrote, “ because I do not mean to tell my people. A 
shop would seem a dreadful thing to my father and 
mother. I shall begin in a very small way, with a 
little sale of spring millinery, opening only in the 
afternoon when school hours are over. When the 
holidays come I shall decide finally between business 
and teaching. Business will mean a general shop — 
the groceries about which you scoffed. Don’t bother 
about anything but the addresses, please.” 

This was the result of the bank account, Creswick 
pondered, and the more that she succeeded in busi- 
ness the less hope there would be for him. More and 
more it was coming home to him that the girl had 
been in earnest, deadly earnest, that day on the hiH. 
It had not been a sudden decision at all, even though 
it had seemed to culminate suddenly; and how defi- 
nitely she had gone to work; how steadily she had 
pursued her aim, and there was no sign as yet of 
halting or wavering. He must, of course, make all 
possible inquiries, instruct her in wholesale methods, 
and select the hats and bonnets, if need be. Even 
in the midst of the sensation of blankness that had 
come over him he laughed at the thought of himself 
as a buyer, and in this spirit he answered Jane’s letter. 
“ Just as soon as you are fully established in business,” 
he wrote, “ I shall learn the persuasive ways of the 
342 


The Making of Jane 

seller and offer you my services as travelling sales- 
man. If only I could be stricken with poverty, I’d 
follow, be fired by your example. As a beginning of 
poverty, by the way, why not let me invest some capi- 
tal in your speculation — send down a car-load of bon- 
nets, and lard, and nails?” 

“ How good he is,” Jane said to the damp Febru- 
ary wind as she read his letter going up the stony 
street from the post-office. She looked about her at 
the uncouth picture which yet had a certain friendli- 
ness. The scattered, irregular houses, the shabby 
fences, the ragged trees, the very stones of the road 
had come to be associated with all the acute sensations 
of her present life, for here it was that she read her 
letters, and looking up from a wound or a sting, the 
insensate things about her would by comparison seem 
friendly. Often in the months that had passed she 
had felt herself to be truly the pilgrim and stranger 
she had called herself. Watching people hurrying 
home out of the cold; catching momentary glimpses 
of fire-lighted interiors as doors were opened and shut ; 
seeing, through forgotten windows, little happy pict- 
ures, she had felt herself cruelly alone. But now that 
she was meditating a change, a venture that would 
identify her with the place, that would in a certain way 
bridge over her isolation, she was afraid. Indeed she 
stood between two fears. So far in life people had 
hurt her, and she dreaded coming near enough again 
to be stricken, to be made uncertain as to pain; on 
the other hand, a certain pain stared her in the face. 
She had been asked casually if she would go home 

343 


The Making of Jane 

for the summer holidays. Instantly a great dread had 
loomed up which had hidden from sight all minor con- 
siderations. Suppose her father should call her home, 
she would have no excuse. Go home? — she could 
not, not now, and through Marion’s letters be in touch 
with all that she was trying to put away? not now, 
not yet, it would be death by slow torture. Go home 
a burden, and hear forever Mrs. Saunders’s low laugh? 
Never. Some barrier must be raised against that pos- 
sibility, and the corner-stone of the barrier was laid 
by Mrs. Dunlap, who had one day said, tentatively: 
“ You know all about New York, Miss Jane, couldn’t 
you tell me how to get a bonnet cheaper than the 
prices they send out, and better looking than what 
they bring here or to Newtown?” And Jane, saying 
that she would think of it, and stumbling over this 
other fear of going home, grasped the idea of spring 
millinery as the protection she was in search of. 

She had put her Christmas checks into the county 
bank, and had added something from her monthly 
salary, and when all was counted it was a small sum, 
still it was enough for this venture, and if she failed 
and lost it all it still would have served its purpose 
in keeping her in Stony Ridge all summer, and per- 
haps a further purpose would be served in that the 
worry of it would possibly put an end to introspection. 
Success or failure, however, would not be such a great 
matter, for there would be the school again in the 
autumn, and in a day or two she opened her plan to 
Mrs. Dunlap. 

“ If I could hire a room,” she said, “ and have a 


The Making of Jane 

few things, bonnets and trimmings, for sale in the 
afternoons; and, when school is over for the summer, 
make it into a small shop, do you think that I could 
make it pay? I could also give embroidery lessons.” 

Mrs. Dunlap’s eyes had opened wide, and she had 
offered all the objections she could think of, Jane an- 
swering them one by one, agreeing to anything, even 
to teaching the Dunlap children and Tena down in the 
shop when the holidays were over if the shop should 
prove itself a success; then having done her duty, 
Mrs. Dunlap gave herself up to visions. Here was an 
opportunity to have a decent shop in the town, and to 
keep people’s money at home; a chance to look less 
countrified — why not? In her stunted career her 
vision had been limited to home-made clothes, or to 
the heart-rending productions of the Stony Ridge 
dressmaker, who also built up strange things for the 
head, so that Jane and Jane’s clothes had been a revela- 
tion, and she had realized at once the great gulf fixed 
between Jane’s apparel and any other that she had 
ever seen, and had been filled with longing. 

All these thoughts came back to her now, and daz- 
zled her. “ There is a room down-town,” she said, 
slowly. 

“ On the main street, with a big window,” Jane 
broke in; “yes, and it’s empty?” 

“Yes, Miss Rogers had a store there; yes, and 
< failed ; but I’ll find out about that room for you.” 
Then Jane, in spite of the fact that Miss Rogers had 
failed, had written at once to Laurence Creswick, and 
his answer coming more quickly than she had thought 

345 


The Making of Jane 

possible, filled her with excited doubts as she walked 
through the misty February morning. 

Wholesale, of course, that was the way to buy ; send 
him a memorandum of what she wanted, and of the 
amount she wished to invest, and he and the shop- 
man would do the rest! “ How good he is! ” and she 
quickened her step. She must arrange about the 
room at once; have it cleaned, and a sign. Her heart 
quailed — Ormonde on a sign! She had no right to 
put it there; it belonged to her brothers, and her step 
slackened. She had no middle name; why not “ Miss 
Jane”? Milliners were usually Maries, or something 
of the kind; why not Miss Jane? Good, she would 
speak to Mrs. Dunlap that very afternoon. 

She whirled the children through the school hours, 
scarcely understanding why she did it. She had found 
the barrier she had longed for, but why any excite- 
ment? A change other than the laundress — was that it? 
Another venture, almost as new and strange as her run- 
ning away — that running away, the wisdom of which 
was still hanging in the balance. But as she talked 
with Mrs. Dunlap that afternoon her excitement in- 
creased, and her listener was deeply affected by her 
energy and enthusiasm. A friend, not a common 
buyer, would select the things — a New York person 
who knew! And Mrs. Dunlap had renewed visions 
of herself as transfigured in fashionable attire. 

“ But we down here can’t buy expensive things,” 
she said at last, with a regretful fall in her voice. 

“ That is just what I want to know,” Jane answered, 
promptly; “prices, and how many bonnets, how many 
346 


The Making of Jane 

hats, trimmed and untrimmed, I had better send 
for? ” 

“ All married women used to wear bonnets,” Mrs. 
Dunlap began, literally, “ but lately some of them 
have taken to hats. I don’t think it looks well, my- 
self; but you can count on all your school mothers to 
buy bonnets — that’ll be four; and as to prices, well, 
I have given as much as five dollars.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ But if you could put them at less, even a little 
less — you see, four dollars and ninety-five cents seems 
so much cheaper.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And I think,” she went on, “ that you can order 
six bonnets trimmed, and as many untrimmed, be- 
cause once we mothers put on New York bonnets the 
others will find reason why they must do it, too. 
They’ll talk about us first, though. They have talked 
about the school, you know.” 

“ No, I did not know.” 

“ Well, they have; all the same they’d like to be 
in it. My idea is that they’ll come into the shop be- 
cause they can’t get into the school.” 

“And how many hats?” 

“ You can get a good many hats. Can’t you get 
some patterns and trim them yourself? Then you can 
let the price down a bit. People have to give their 
work and time when they are beginning. But I don’t 
think you’ll lose, and I am just as anxious as you 
are. Just as soon as you hear that the things are on 
the way, we’ll go down and hire the room and clean 

34 / 


The Making of Jane 

it up; we’ll take Jake down some Saturday to scour, 
and you’d better put a notice in the paper — let it be 
in for next week, for the paper only comes out once 
a week — and I’ll go round and tell the mothers.” 

Things were rushing faster than Jane had dreamed, 
and she felt as if caught in a current that was hurry- 
ing her on to some unknown thing, just as she had 
felt in the autumn after Mrs. Fenser had answered 
her advertisement. Never mind how much she thought 
of things and prepared for results, the crises in her 
life seemed always at the last to spring on her in a 
moment, and unawares, and before she realized hav- 
ing stepped over any bounds, a wall would be built 
up so that there was no turning back. Of course she 
was at liberty to change her mind; she could write to 
Laurence Creswick without difficulty, and could speak 
to Mrs. Dunlap, of course, and she could go home? 
She would engage the room at once and pay the rent 
for six months in advance. She would send the money 
and lists to Laurence Creswick; she would take one 
of her hats to pieces and learn, bow by bow, and 
flower by flower, how to trim it ; she would study with 
care the different styles of head-gear to be seen in 
church and in the streets, and she would advertise in 
the weekly paper. She would succeed or she would 
fail; she would die, but she would not go home. 


348 


XXII 


“ We wear out life, alas ! 

Distracted as a homeless wind, 

In beating where we must not pass, 

In seeking what we shall not find. ” 

I N a few days a little buzz began to reach Jane 
through the school children. “ Are you really 
going to have a shop, Miss Jane? ” and “ Mamma says 
she’ll buy me a hat.” Then a letter from Creswick 
to say that the things had left New York. He made 
his part to seem very easy and very amusing, giving 
his views of bonnets in general, and of bonnets for a 
village community; of hats for country girls; of the 
flowers, and ribbons, and wires, and much other cheer- 
ful nonsense that made Jane laugh. “ And I will keep 
you informed of the state of the market,” he went on; 
“ and be sure to let me know when you want the lard 
and nails. This has been the funniest thing of my 
life, and I envy you.” 

All of Saturday morning Jane spent in the future 
shop, an unlovely place at best, but it was clean, and 
perhaps it would not look as dismal to Stony Ridge 
as it did to her. Across the window she had tacked 
a strip of cloth on which was printed, in large letters : 

MISS JANE 

HAS FOR SALE A FEW 
HATS AND BONNETS FROM NEW YORK 
349 


The Making of Jane 

which Mrs. Dunlap declared to be “ fine,” as the 
“ few ” would make the women anxious lest they’d 
not get there in time to buy; then behind the sign 
Mrs. Dunlap had tacked a white cotton curtain to 
keep out curious gazers. Jane had bought a table, a 
sofa, a few chairs, and a dressing-table with the least 
gnarled mirror that the stock of furniture in the town 
afforded. She would bring down her own pin-cushion 
and hand-glass. The things would arrive on Monday, 
probably, and she would be ready for inspection by 
Tuesday afternoon, and it was with something of a 
thrill that she locked the door on her preparations and 
took her way up the hilly street. 

Half-way up she met Ned Beaton on horseback. 
He dismounted, and, slipping the bridle over his arm, 
joined her. “ I hear that you are going into busi- 
ness,” he began at once; “why did not you consult 
me?” 

“ It did not occur to me.” 

“ Will you tell me about it ; why you are going to 
do it, and what you expect the end to be?” 

“ I expect the end to be a fortune.” 

“ It is a speculation, then.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you can afford to lose what you put into it? ” 

“ You are not encouraging.” 

“ I am not sure that I wish to be.” 

“ You told me once, in a very instructive way, Mr. 
Beaton, that we could have only the thing that we 
could grasp; I am trying to grasp something.” 

“ In Stony Ridge? ” 


350 


The Making of Jane 

“ Women cannot afford to despise the day of small 
things.’’ 

“ Thanks to men ; but will you walk a little slower, 
please, and let me talk to you seriously?” 

Jane slackened her pace. 

“ I do not know you very well,” he began, “ but I 
feel driven into admonishing you, into pleading with 
you. You are throwing away your money and your- 
self in going into a shop; believe me, it is a hopeless 
venture.” 

“ Do you mean for me especially, or because Stony 
Ridge is a hopeless place?” 

“ Both.” 

" You think that I am incapable? ” 

“ Not at all, but I have had need to give women a 
great deal of thought, and I have arrived at the point 
where I am sorry for them, and more sorry for them 
now than ever before.” 

Jane looked up quickly. “ You mean ” 

“ That they are deceived, that you are deceived by 
a very plausible seeming. The great cry now is that 
everything is open to women, and the poor things be- 
lieve it. There are colleges and the like, but what 
then? After you are educated, after you have passed 
all the examinations, you are women still — you will 
fall in love.” 

The color sprang into Jane’s face and her eyes 
flashed. 

“ Don’t be angry,” lifting his hand deprecatingly, 
“ it is this one lovely weakness that at present saves 
the situation; but putting that aside for a moment, 
35i 


The Making of Jane 

and granting mental equality, granting educational 
equality, men will have more faith in a man’s strength, 
in a man’s judgment, in a man’s nerves. Will a man, 
then, ever send for a woman physician or entrust any- 
one he loves to the care of one? Will he ever employ 
a woman lawyer, be she never so charming a Portia? 
Would we employ women clerks if it were not that 
they will accept lower wages?” 

Again Jane’s eyes seemed to catch fire. “ I hate 
men,” she said. 

“ You are quite right,” and Beaton nodded, “ we 
are hateful creatures, and I for one think it greatly 
our fault that women stand where they stand to-day. 
If we men had never been unjust to you women, had 
never neglected you, had treated you properly, you 
would all have been beautiful; beautiful women are 
always cared for; so it follows that you would never 
have tried to stand alone, and the way that leads to 
nowhere would never have been open to delude you 
into work that leads to nothing. Believe me, I have 
thought this thing out as carefully as a man can, and 
I have come to the conclusion that it is the plain 
women who stand first in this movement, who have 
been driven to work for solace.” 

“ Thank you,” and Jane laughed. “ Work for solace 
is good.” 

“But not for you; your working contravenes my 
theories. Besides, there is no use in your taking this 
stand, for, leaving everything else to one side, you 
will never get anywhere.” 

“ We cannot be sure of that.” 


352 


The Making of Jane 

“We can. In the first place, you have no future in 
a town like this; in the second place, women are not 
meant to go into business; I have not seen any of 
them succeed in business for themselves. I mean 
business as business, not trimming hats and making 
unholy charges for clothes, but an honest business for 
honest gains. They can’t do this alone, and if you 
will look around you you will realize that no woman 
is ever allowed to work up to the head of any institu- 
tion or company where there are men. Never mind 
how clever, how apt, how facile you are, we can never 
promote you, for one simple reason, that there is al- 
ways the chance that just as soon as you are thor- 
oughly trained and absolutely necessary, you will 
marry, and we’d have to begin all over again on an- 
other candidate.” 

They walked along in silence for a few steps, then 
Jane said: “But if one should pledge one’s self not 
to?” 

“ Then you’d help only the one woman who pledged 
herself, for that woman does not marry and so does 
not hand on her business ability, see? While in man 
it is reduced to heredity.” 

“ I have never thought of working for my sex as 
a sex,” Jane answered, slowly, as if a new idea had 
come to her, “ but you are rapidly driving me into 
that position.” 

“ God forbid! ” 

“You speak of us almost as goods and chattels; 
certainly as nonentities.” 

“ As the solace of life — as exquisite flowers.” 

353 


The Making of Jane 

“ And when the flowers are withered?” 

“To be gazed on with loving melancholy, as we 
gaze on the pressed flowers in our Bibles that recall 
a charming spring or a gorgeous summer; to be 
shielded sacredly.” 

“ When you began I thought you in earnest.” 

“I am in earnest; your going into business is 
absurd.” 

“ Why may not I, individually, succeed ? ” 

“ Because, putting other things aside, you do not 
strike me as being in the least fitted for business. You 
are sensitive, you are not accustomed to fighting the 
world. There are strong lines in your face, but they 
are not there naturally, they have been put there by 
an unkind fate. When your face relaxes it is as soft 
and gentle as a child’s; when your eyes are not con- 
sciously on the defensive, they are pathetically appeal- 
ing. Pray forgive this extremely personal criticism, 
but from the very first you excited my curiosity and 
interest. I picked up an envelope addressed to you. 
I watched you walking away from me up a long road 
reading something intently. From your general ap- 
pearance I thought that you had strayed to this place 
by mistake; then I reflected that you might be cross- 
eyed or noseless.” 

Again Jane looked up at him, laughing. 

“ Yes, and I put the envelope on the gate-post to 
wait for you.” 

“ You would do that much for a noseless woman? ” 

“ I’d do more, I’d put her into a convent and sup- 
port her there. Then I saw you, talked to you, and 
ever since I’ve been drawing conclusions about you.” 

354 


The Making of Jane 

“ You are very kind.” 

“ My dear Miss Ormonde, missionaries have to put 
up with a great deal more than sarcasm, and just now 
I look on myself as a missionary. I have been most 
horribly personal this afternoon, but I felt it neces- 
sary, even if you never speak to me again; but I am 
sure that you will forgive me, and will think of what 
I have said.” 

“ Forgive you, of course, but turn back, no. I am 
going to succeed, let it cost what it may.” 

“ Even after the brick wall is pointed out to you 
you insist on smashing your head against it? ” 

“ Perhaps on climbing it. The modern woman you 
so much deprecate is athletic. Your mistake, Mr. 
Beaton, is that you have thought of me as a faddist; 
as trying to prove something for my sex; as leading 
an attack on your sex. I am not, I am working solely 
and simply for Jane Ormonde, and to make her a suc- 
cess, an ambition so small that it will be satisfied by 
money enough to make me independent.” 

“ That is more practical, more man-like than your 
sex usually is, Miss Ormonde, and yet you allowed 
Mrs. Fenser to screw you, and sent back to me scorn- 
fully your rightful travelling expenses? ” They had 
reached Mrs. Dunlap’s gate, and, letting her through, 
Beaton leaned one elbow on top. “ When do you 
open shop? ” 

“ On Tuesday afternoon, I hope.” 

“ Do you know that there is a prejudice against you 
in the town because you teach a select school?” 

“ I have heard so.” 


355 


The Making of Jane 

“ And a great one against the school because I en- 
abled the mothers to have it. Do you know that be- 
cause I did not invite the town to my wedding, and, 
failing that, did not frame my marriage license and 
hang it up in the post-office, that I am looked on as 
a very sooty sheep indeed? And have you reflected 
that these prejudices may hurt your trade?” 

“ Not if the bonnets are becoming. Curiosity will 
bring them in ” 

“ And vanity do the rest? Perhaps for a little while; 
but I am sorry that I did not know of this sooner,” 
his voice losing its bantering tone. “ I thought of 
you as in safe keeping until the middle of June at 
least, and then I was going to suggest that you be- 
come a travelling governess for the summer; give Tena 
and Nannie a peripatetic education. But what about 
the school next autumn?” 

“ According to you I shall have failed by that time, 
and can reopen the school ; if not, the Dunlap children 
and Tena can come to me at the shop.” 

“ A wilful woman ” 

“ Is like a man convinced against his will,” and 
Jane held out her hand over the gate. “ Thank you 
very much for all your advice,” she said, “but I still 
hope that I shall not meet shipwreck.” 

“ And I must leave you to wilful ruin? ” 

“ I am afraid so.” Then he mounted and rode away 
slowly. 

On Monday all was excitement. At recess Jane 
went over to the station to receive her boxes, leaving 
the key of her shop with the drayman of the town so 
356 


The Making of Jane 

that he could put the boxes into the shop, the key 
then to be deposited with the grocer next door. Her 
dinner was late, of course, and with Mrs. Dunlap only. 

“ Fm so excited that I wish you’d give holiday,” 
Mrs. Dunlap began; “I am fairly wild to see the 
things, and Mrs. Tomkins says she’ll be there to-mor- 
row, sure. I believe in my soul that being open so 
little will make people more anxious to come. A thing 
that you can do any time, you never find time to do, 
that’s the way I am, anyhow; if my work didn’t put 
me into a corner I’m afraid it would be badly shirked. 
Well, we’ll go down at four, then.” 

Mrs. Dunlap had some forcible expressions, put her 
simple views of life into telling words, and sent Jane 
back to her teaching feeling that circumstances had in 
a way put her into a corner. She remembered, too, 
Ned Beaton’s words: “And let Mrs. Fenser screw 
you?” No one should screw her again. Then Lau- 
rence Creswick had written, “ Remember that your 
stock will keep; don’t get into a panic and give it 
away.” People looked on her as very weak; the lines 
of strength on her face had come by accident. She 
would show them differently, and begin by not being 
excited. She must price the things according to the 
bills, and do it carefully so as to pay the freight as 
well; then suddenly the rent rose up before her. In 
order not to lose she must pay rent as well as freight. 
Well might Mrs. Dunlap say that her work and time 
would have to be thrown in. 

It was a sunshiny afternoon, and Mr. Dunlap agree- 
ing to take the children with him to the farm so as to 

357 


The Making of Jane 

leave Mrs. Dunlap free, Jane and Mrs. Dunlap, armed 
with the bills, a hatchet, and several finishing touches 
thought necessary to make the barren place attractive, 
started off for the shop. 

“ My ! ” Mrs. Dunlap said, laughing a little breath- 
lessly as she kept step with Jane, “ I haven’t been in 
such a stir since I was married. I’m fairly wild with 
curiosity, and I’ll bet you that if the Tomkins children 
have told their mother she won’t wait for to-morrow, 
she’ll come right down.” 

Jane, who was almost having an ague over the pos- 
sibilities of Laurence Creswick’s taste in cheap bon- 
nets, and who had been comforting herself with the 
thought that if they were too terrible she would have 
a little time in which to pull and pinch them into shape 
before the public had an opportunity to scorn them, 
was appalled by this suggestion. She had been foolish 
to impress it so carefully on Laurence Creswick that 
it was a country village, and that country village taste 
must be pandered to. Of course his ideas of country 
taste would be exaggerated. She had been very fool- 
ish, so now she asked: “Can’t we lock the door and 
pretend not to be in?” 

“ Never,” Mrs. Dunlap answered, promptly, “ she 
will hear us hammering.” 

“ And Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Miller, too? ” Jane 
went on. 

“ No, they are quieter, they’ll wait. But what are 
you afraid of? You ought to want customers to come 
as soon as possible.” 

Jane drew a sharp breath. “ I am not afraid,” she 

358 


The Making of Jane 

answered, mendaciously, “ it is only that things will 
show to so much better advantage if they are prop- 
erly arranged/’ She should have come alone. She 
opened the door almost like a thief, and closed it and 
locked it with hands trembling with excitement, then 
they turned to look at the boxes. 

“ My! ” and Mrs. Dunlap walked around the boxes 
with the hatchet hanging down in her hand. Jane 
caught sight of her own face in the glass; she was 
stupidly pale, and with a set smile on her lips. She 
turned her back. “ I will spread the table-cover first,” 
she said, “ and if you wish you can open the boxes,” 
and she realized, almost with anguish, that all her 
determination not to be nervous had left her at the 
most critical moment, that she was filled with a long- 
ing such as she had felt when, as a child, she had 
been taken to the dentist — a longing for some hand 
to hold when the pain came. She had not had it then, 
and she did not have it now; there was no one to 
tell her fears to, and even to hint them would hurt 
her prospects. 

The nails were screeching and groaning under the 
insinuating prizing of Mrs. Dunlap’s hatchet, but the 
end was not yet, and Jane arranged and rearranged 
the pin-cushion and hand-glass that she had brought, 
until she could arrange them no more, and had to 
turn. Just then a part of a cover came up with a 
sharp crack, and a sea of tissue-paper was revealed. 

“ Wait a minute,” Jane whispered, as if Mrs. Tom- 
kins were already at the key-hole, “let us get this 
other piece off, and let us open the other box, too, 

359 


The Making of Jane 

before we unpack either; it will really be better, you 
know.” 

Of course Mrs. Dunlap agreed — just at that tensely 
exciting moment she would have agreed to almost 
anything; and when, after much awkward effort, both 
boxes were opened, and Jane gathered up the need- 
lessly mutilated bits of board to put them away out 
of sight, giving herself one moment more of respite, 
Mrs. Dunlap called her back with cruel eagerness: 
“Come, come, Miss Jane; even the paper is beauti- 
ful! ” and Jane had to return. 

She was stupid. After all it was not a matter of life 
and death. It was well that she had steadied her 
nerves before she came on the first pyramid of straw 
and ribbon and waving roses. She felt her eyes grow 
big as saucers, she felt her lips part in a stiff smile. 
Mrs. Dunlap’s eyes were as big as saucers, too, and 
a knock sounded on the door ! 

Without one word Mrs. Dunlap darted forward and 
unlocked it. “Just in time! ” she cried, triumphantly; 
“ such beautiful, beautiful bonnets! ” and as Mrs. Tom- 
kins came, with uplifted hands, Jane felt as if she had 
stepped from out a deadly nightmare. 

It was plain sailing after this, Mrs. Tomkins work- 
ing with as hearty a will as did Mrs. Dunlap, and be- 
fore very long the boxes were emptied and the things 
arranged on the long table, indeed everything was 
done except the pricing, and that Jane would have to 
work out alone. Each lady selected a bonnet, how- 
ever, engaging them regardless of cost, but kindly 
leaving them for the present in order to make the 
show more impressive for a day or two, then they 
360 


The Making of Jane 

went away, having home duties, and Jane was left 
alone in what seemed to her a chamber of horrors. 

Fixing the prices was a tremendous job. She must 
add the rent and the freight to the cost of the stock, 
then hunt for her profit! Mrs. Dunlap’s remark that 
four dollars and ninety-five cents seemed so much 
cheaper than five dollars was a valuable hint, indeed 
she found that four dollars and ninety-nine cents, even, 
seemed very much less than five dollars. It was a 
queer thing how magical these odd cents were, and 
shop-keeping promised to be infinitely more exciting 
than teaching. She had been a ridiculous coward, 
and that night she would write to Laurence Creswick 
and tell him how wonderfully he had succeeded, and 
how awfully ugly the things were. That he must 
think of her as meeting these terrible constructions 
daily, and as having to build others like them, and on 
Sunday she would have to look at these monstrosities 
in lumps, and that having had the opportunity to bet- 
ter the taste of the town, she had not done it. That 
this last consideration had made her feel really im- 
moral, but that she had decided that the hats of the 
young girls and the children should be trimmed with 
extreme simplicity as a measure of saving grace. 

She was very tired when she locked the shop-door 
behind her, but she was conscious also of a great sense 
of relief. She had made the plunge, and would be 
able to tell Ned Beaton that she was on the high road 
to success. And that night she went to bed to dream 
unceasingly of large blobby bonnets on long wrinkly 
ribbon legs, chasing her up hill and down dale all over 
the world. 


361 


XXIII 


“ My own hope is, a sun will pierce 
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched ; 

That after Last returned the First, 

Though a wide compass round be fetched ; 

That what began best can’t end worst, 

Nor what God blessed once prove accurst.” 

J ANE’S first sensation on awaking the next morn- 
ing was of wonder ; of a new load to be carried ; 
of weakness. Everything showed this last, even 
her dreams ; and it was not strange that people should 
distrust her ability, nor that Mrs. Saunders should have 
found it so necessary to direct her so carefully, and to 
smile as she had done over her feeble struggles. And 
now how contemptible was her motive ; risking all that 
she had, to protect herself from things that she should 
have been strong enough to endure. She was not go- 
ing from strength to strength, but in exactly the oppo- 
site direction ; had sunk so low as to have been 
afraid of those women’s comments on the bonnets. 
What had become of her self-control, had she over- 
worked it? 

The dream of helping her father had faded to the 
farthest limits of her vision. He did not approve of 
her position ; no one did ; and so, of course, he would 
not approve of the results; and in the place of that 
362 


The Making of Jane 

hope she had not put any noble determination to help 
her kind, or even her sex, as Ned Beaton had thought. 
She was only hopelessly into another weak snarl, the 
only gain from which was the ability to write to her 
mother that she had an engagement for the summer. 
This would prevent any urging as to her coming home ; 
this was what she had worked for, and already her lit- 
tle payment, her puerile little payment had come. All 
that was left her now was to be successful in a pe- 
cuniary way, no matter how small; indeed, the size of 
her venture compelled her to be very small. 

Armed with these conclusions of a forlorn hope, she 
went to the shop that afternoon at the earliest possible 
hour, only to find that Mrs. Tomkins was in the next 
shop waiting for her, and that Mrs. Dunlap followed 
close on her heels. 

“ I think that this will be a nice place to come and 
chat of an afternoon,” Mrs. Tomkins said, and seated 
herself in the middle of the sofa. 

“ If I had time I’d take embroidery lessons,” Mrs. 
Dunlap said, suggestively. 

“ Embroidery lessons?” Mrs. Tomkins repeated, 
coming over to where Mrs. Dunlap was examining the 
contents of a box. “ Do you teach embroidery, Miss 
Jane? I didn’t know that; I believe I would like to 
do some centre-pieces.” 

Then Jane, remembering her recently made resolu- 
tion as to small gains, displayed in a way that she de- 
spised the different patterns that had been sent, with 
the shaded silks to match. 

“ Fifty cents a lesson,” Mrs. Dunlap put in. 

363 


The Making of Jane 

“ I believe I will.” And Mrs. Tomkins pulled off 
her gloves. “ If I had a thimble.” 

Thanks to Laurence Creswick, there was a thimble 
at hand; for by the advice of an interested shopman, 
he had sent some “ Fancy touches ” along with the 
regular stock, and there were one or two gaudy work- 
boxes, with tinsel fittings, and one or two glove-boxes 
of the same type. Now a thimble was abstracted, and 
the first customers, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Miller, 
found a very sociable, busy scene when they entered. 

“ How nice ! ” they cried. 

“ Delightful ! ” Mrs. Dunlap answered ; “ and we’ve 
each bought a bonnet ! ” 

Of course two more bonnets were bought promptly, 
the newcomers fortunately selecting others than those 
already purchased ; then Mrs. Miller struck a new note. 
“ You’ve bought first,” she said, “ but I’ll wear first. 
You can put my bonnet on right away, Miss Ja£e, and 
I’ll go make some calls. It’ll bring quicker sales.” 

At once there was a chorus of demands that all the 
bonnets be put on. “ And we’ll go different ways,” 
Mrs. Dunlap finished. Jane felt as if a small whirl- 
wind had struck her, but she adjusted the bonnets to 
the various heads, each lady buying a new veil, which 
she also arranged, shivering when the money was paid 
her, and feeling as if her dream had come true when 
she saw the four bonnets streaming away to the four 
quarters of the town. 

At supper that evening Mrs. Dunlap was in a flutter 
of pleased excitement; so much so that she actually 
drove Mr. Dunlap into speech. “ I thought bonnets 

3^4 


The Making of Jane 

were for the outsides of heads,” he said ; “ but it seems 
yours have got to the insides.” 

“ It does seem so,” the wife admitted. “ But it’s 
been ever so pleasant ; nice things have been said, Miss 
Jane, and you won’t have one left by to-morrow. Can’t 
you get some more trimmed quick ? ” 

And her prognostications were quite true. There 
was a run on Jane’s stock the very next afternoon, and 
orders left to be filled. That evening Jane brought home 
a lot of material, and far into the night she sat working. 
Of course this rush could not last, for the demand in 
the place was necessarily extremely limited, and it 
would be wise to have something to sell besides hats 
and embroideries. Every shop in the town combined 
things, and in order to survive, she must combine 
things, too. Some summer lawns, perhaps, with one 
or two ready-made dresses, and perhaps she could in- 
troduce a tea-table. Sell the tea to the women who 
were using the shop as a gathering-place, Mrs. Tom- 
kins having actually sent down a comfortable chair for 
herself. The outlay for the experiment would be very 
small, and the next afternoon found a kettle boiling on 
a small oil-stove, a small table set, and a card up to say, 
" T ea, ten cents a cup ” 

Great was the surprise; but it was popular, and Jane 
was looked on as a most resourceful young woman, a 
person who knew things; and Mrs. Wheeler decided 
that she, also, would send down a comfortable chair. 
Jane’s hands soon became overful, and she began to 
wonder where she would find any rest, any time for 
exercise; for just as her afternoons were spent in the 

365 


The Making of Jane 

shop, so were her evenings spent in working to fill her 
orders, and her walking was reduced to the distance 
between the house and the shop. Further, she had to 
give up going for her letters, begging the grocer next 
door to bring them when he went for his own ; and she 
looked back with wonder, almost with longing, to the 
time when, on her first arrival, the days had seemed 
so endless. It would be better, however, once the 
school was over, only that by that time the rush would 
be over, too, for, as far as she could judge, she had 
hatted very nearly the whole of Stony Ridge; and 
sometimes in the Methodist church she would shut 
her eyes to keep out the vision ot her week’s handi- 
work. 

The lawns were sent for and the pattern-dresses; 
then some magazines and cheap novels were added, 
and more money was sent to Laurence Creswick for 
stationery and wholesale candy. A counter was put 
in, and Jane felt herself a regular shopkeeper. The 
weather grew warmer, and iced tea took the place of 
the hot brew. Jane put up a wire door, and tacked 
nettings over the windows and furnished fans to keep 
the flies away ; she must keep the place attractive, for 
many small things were sold to the people who gath- 
ered there to see each other. 

Then June came all too swiftly; and because it 
brought blazing heat, and because the mothers' sud- 
denly demanded a display at the end of the school term, 
Jane was in despair. She was so tired, so worn with 
the heat and the flies, and the buzz of the little town, 
and now came this totally unexpected request for what 
366 


The Making of Jane 

was ambitiously called a “ Commencement ” ; “ Dia- 
logues/’ it was explained, “ and recitations, and some 
music and refreshments.” Of course the mothers 
would furnish the refreshments ; “ Miss Jane would 
only have to prepare the children.” There was nothing 
to do but to get through the examinations, such as they 
were, as quickly as possible, and put the last days into 
this flimsy show ; it was really dreadful, almost tragic, 
this last unexpected straw ! It caused a fresh run 
on the shop, however, for each little girl had to have 
a new white frock and a sash, and each boy a ribbon 
cravat. And as soon as this was over, her salary would 
cease, and her living would have to go on. She would 
make up her accounts carefully, would see what she 
had in the shop, would write to Laurence Creswick that 
she would not need anything more, then would try to 
sell what she had on hand — fortunately it was not 
very much. She would do all this at once, before her 
last month’s salary came in, so that if it were very dis- 
astrous, she would be able to say to herself, “ The end 
of June will bring in fifteen dollars.” 

She sighed ; she was a coward still ; and she covered 
herself with contemptuous thoughts. Laboriously she 
went over her accounts, valuing the stock on hand at 
less than cost, and found that she had cleared just fif- 
teen dollars! Her heart went up a little. She could 
at least tell Ned Beaton that she had not failed; and 
if, by chance, she did not sell what she had left, she 
would even then clear expenses. Make a fortune! 
But she had just begun; and beginnings cost, people 
had told her ; experience cost, too ; she was doing bet- 

367 


The Making of Jane 

ter than she had any right to expect, and just let her 
get over this stupid exhibition, and she could rest a 
little. It would be better to come down to the shop 
in the morning, as well as the afternoon; she could 
bring some books with her, and, in a way, make herself 
comfortable. She would have to look after her clothes, 
too, and after awhile the hot weather would be over. 

That she had not lost ought to cheer her; and the 
next day she tried to put a little more energy into her 
teaching, a little more fire into Joey’s declamation, into 
the dialogue over which Nannie and Tena were labor- 
ing. The little Tomkins, who had seemed absolutely 
hopeless, did better, and the little Millers and Wheelers 
came out in a way that was almost startling. All due 
to her wonderful success in business ! It was ridicu- 
lous how she allowed things to depend on her moods ; 
fancy a business depending on moods ; as quickly as 
possible she must make herself into a machine; then 
she might hope to succeed in some direction. 

So she wound herself up to the last supreme effort 
of the last afternoon. The little school-house was 
packed to suffocation, people standing outside and fill- 
ing in the windows as well, and it seemed to Jane im- 
possible to breathe. In the window nearest the stage 
Ned Beaton leaned, and she did not dare to look at him 
after the first recognition ; she did not feel able to face 
the cheerful amusement she knew there would be in his 
eyes. Indeed, she looked at no one, but spent her en- 
ergies in marshalling the hopelessly conscious children, 
knowing that each mother was watching with jealous 
eye for the prominence of her own offspring. Poor 
368 


The Making of Jane 

little souls, how hard they tried to do her credit, glu- 
ing their eyes to hers until she would have to shake 
her head, which would cause them to look up to the 
ceiling, or straight at the farthest wall. How the boys’ 
hands clung to the outside seams of their trousers, and 
how the girls grasped their little handkerchiefs and 
fans, as if they were weapons of defence. How the 
beads of heat and nervous terror stood out on their 
foreheads and noses, threatening to take all the curl 
out of their hideously frizzed hair, or drop like dread- 
ful tears down on their new ribbons ! Poor little souls, 
how foolish to have shown them off ! But the mothers 
were charmed, and the town amazed, and Mrs. Dunlap 
said that all the children in Stony Ridge would come to 
the school, if they were allowed; but of course the 
aim of the mothers was to keep the children separate 
from the other children. 

The entertainment afterward was out on the grass. 
Ice-cream, and cake, and lemonade, and some of Jane’s 
stock of mixed candy. And Jane moved about, talk- 
ing and laughing, and being astonished with each 
mother over the respective prowess of each child. She 
became almost hysterical at last, and when Ned Beaton 
came up to speak to her, she gave him such a glance 
of appeal that he turned his badinage into a short fare- 
well and went away, taking Tena with him. 

That night she slept the sleep of sheer exhaustion, 
and the next morning had but one sensation, a sensa- 
tion of collapse such as a stringed instrument might 
have when, being strung up to the very last turn of 
the screws, the bridge crumbles under the strain. She 

369 


The Making of Jane 

hated the trampled look of the grass, the piles of chairs 
on the piazza, and in the school-room the books, and 
chalk-boxes, and ink-stands huddled into unusual cor- 
ners. She hated everything, and more than all, the vis- 
ion brought to her by a letter from home, that of the 
Saunders and Marion preparing to go to Europe. She 
knew it all so well ; remembered it as the one compen- 
sating thing in her whole life ; and those last voyages. 
She seemed to hear the rush and swish of the waves, 
to see the high mast cutting its arc against the star-set, 
black sky ; she seemed to hear Mark’s low voice, to look 
straight into his shining eyes. This vision as she 
marched down to the shop. She drew a sharp breath 
as she unlocked the door; he was false; she hated him ; 
she must not remember. If Ned Beaton should come 
in now she would tell him that she was sorry ; that she 
hated the shop; that she hated the little town. Why 
under heaven had they built the town down in a hol- 
low ? it had to be hot shut in with hills on every side. 
Then she recalled that in the winter the people had 
said : “We are so sheltered by the hills that we are 
not so cold as other towns, or even as Mrs. Dunlap’s 
place.” Of course they would not now say we are 
hotter than other towns because we are in a valley; 
of course not ; instead, they would explain that this was 
an unusual season. What a pity it was that humanity 
did not defend its friends in this same faithful way ! 
On the contrary, almost anyone would be ready to 
lower the voice and raise the eyebrow, and explain 
carefully the faults and failings of the next one, gen- 
tly, regretfully, maybe, but relentlessly. They almost 
seemed to feel it a duty. 


370 


The Making of Jane 

She lifted the curtain and looked at the hats in the 
window ; how she hated them, fading out even as she 
was, as soon as a strong light fell on them ! How wise 
she was becoming, how Pharisaical ! she had not talked 
about her neighbors because she had never had anyone 
with whom to be confidential. Mrs. Saunders had al- 
ways rebuked her for her opinions, even when she was 
trying to agree with Mrs. Saunders; and so, in self- 
defence, she had learned to be silent. Mrs. Saunders 
had taught her a great deal ; more than Mrs. Saunders 
realized, probably; and if she ever succeeded in any- 
thing, Mrs. Saunders would claim the credit as due to 
her training. It would be if only because Mrs. Saun- 
ders had driven her out into the world. It seemed to 
her now that her life had been like the old torture of 
dropping water; there had never been more than a 
drop at a time, but there had come a moment when the 
next drop would have crazed her, and she had broken 
away. Yes, Mrs. Saunders had been a most clever 
torturer, a most clever woman ; undoubtedly so. 

Laurence Creswick was agreeing with her about 
Mrs. Saunders’s cleverness as he walked through the 
streets at an unusually early hour for him. He had 
been seeing a great deal of Mrs. Saunders, for there 
had been a tremendous progression in his friendship 
with the household. He had felt that it brought him 
nearer to Jane ; that he was, in a way, becoming one 
of them ; and besides, he was very fond of Marion, in a 
brotherly way, and had, in a measure, guided her 
through her first winter. Mrs. Saunders had constant- 
ly consulted him as to the best things to be done, and 
the girl herself had turned to him in many ways. She 
371 


The Making of Jane 

was a charming little thing ; more vivacious than Jane, 
and most engagingly frank. He had been watching 
Mark Witting lately, and once more wondering why 
Mrs. Saunders let him come so much to the house. 
Witting had admired Jane greatly; but he felt almost 
sure that Witting was in love with Marion, which must 
be pointed out to Mrs. Saunders as being dangerous. 

Ever since the evening before, when he had received 
a note from Mrs. Saunders, asking him to come and see 
her this morning, Creswick had been going over these 
things in his mind. The appointment was for such 
an unusually early hour, such an unheard-of hour, just 
after breakfast, that it must mean that she wished to 
consult him about something important. Of late she 
had been doing this more than ever, alleging as excuse 
that Mr. Saunders did not, and would not keep up with 
the world. “ He is a Southerner, you know/’ she had 
added, laughing, “ and what I call laziness, he calls re- 
pose.” 

Yes, she was an unusually clever woman, and a very 
handsome one into the bargain ; and he liked her now 
better than at first he had ever thought possible. It 
was quite probable that she had been a little hard on 
Jane, a little hard. It was queer how difficult it was 
for women to get on with each other. Mothers-in-law, 
and sisters-in-law, and maiden aunts, and the like, were 
always cooling off and withdrawing from each other — 
very queer — but to men Mrs. Saunders was most agree- 
able. 

Simmons ushered him into the drawing-room, so cool 
and shadowy in its summer whiteness of fresh cover- 
372 


The Making of Jane 

ings, and palms and ferns, and filled with the perfume 
of flowers. How charming now, when things usually 
looked a little done, a little put away for the yearly 
flitting, a little as if people were not expected; here 
everything was fresher and more enticing even than 
in the full rush of the winter season. She must be an 
exceptionally good manager, Mrs. Saunders, and have 
uncommonly well-trained servants. Why need one 
go away from such a home as this for the summer ? In 
the old times, when people stayed at home all the year 
round, it was then that people loved their homes. This 
running about from place to place was bound to be sub- 
versive of the family. Charming ! and he walked 
about, looking at the pictures more carefully than ever 
before. How well chosen each one was, how artisti- 
cally framed! 

The carriage came to the door ; had he made a mis- 
take in the hour? and he looked at his watch. No, he 
had been absolutely on time. Perhaps Mrs. Saunders 
wished him to go somewhere with her; and he stood 
at the window with his hands behind him, looking out 
between the filmy curtains. Presently a step sounded 
in the hall, and he turned, to see Marion in the crispest 
and freshest blue, holding out her hand. 

“ Good-morning. Where did you drop from at this 
hour ? ” 

“ I am here by appointment,” taking her hand and 
thinking how really lovely she was. “ I am waiting 
for Mrs. Saunders.” 

“ And I am doomed to the dressmaker ; and it is go- 
ing to be warm in a half-hour.” 

373 


The Making of Jane 

“ If you would just drive about the town/' Creswick 
went on, still looking down on the charming picture, 
“ I’m sure that blue gown would cool off the whole 
atmosphere.” 

“ How punctual you are.” And Mrs. Saunders 
entered. “ Not gone yet, dear child? ” patting Marion 
on the shoulder. “ You will be late.” 

“ I wish I need not go,” with an upward glance at 
Creswick, “ but cousin says that, in one way or another, 
we pay for everything in life ; and so my frocks call on 
me for a hot, tempestuous morning.” 

“ She grows prettier every day,” Creswick said, 
when, at last, with the door carefully shut, he found 
himself sitting opposite Mrs. Saunders. 

“ And more charming,” Mrs. Saunders added. “ In 
the little while that she has been with me, she has given 
me more affection and confidence than Jane did in all 
the years of her life.” 

Creswick had made a compact with himself never to 
discuss Jane with Mrs. Saunders, but now she looked 
him straight in the eyes and he had to answer. “ Miss 
Ormonde was more reserved than her sister.” 

“Is that what you call it?” And Mrs. Saunders 
smiled. “ You are delightfully loyal to your friends, 
Mr. Creswick, even when they walk off without ex- 
planation. Now, however, I have a more serious mat- 
ter in hand. Chaperons and guardians, you know, 
have duties that are not only serious, but very often 
disagreeable; and I have explained as to my hus- 
band ” 

Creswick looked up quickly. “ Anything in the 
world that I can do,” he said. 

374 


The Making of Jane 

Mrs. Saunders bowed. “ In the case of Jane,” she 
went on, “ I must confess to carelessness ; to a too 
unquestioning faith in a seemingly unsullied young 
girl ” 

“ Mrs. Saunders ! ” 

She raised a silencing hand. “ You have no defence 
to make in that case,” she said. “ You asked no per- 
mission; you also took advantage of my trustfulness, 
my unsuspicious nature, did you not ? ” 

“ I certainly addressed Miss Ormonde, but if it 
were a breach of etiquette, a man is sometimes carried 
away by his feelings ” 

“ Not once, but many times,” Mrs. Saunders quoted. 
“ No, Mr. Creswick,” she went on, “ I am afraid that 
you are without an excuse ; and your action, then, arms 
me now.” 

Creswick was now leaning back, looking at his com- 
panion with a questioning, puzzled look. She an- 
swered the look quietly, and her voice was quiet also. 
“ You are a gentleman, and my friend, and I introduced 
you to this new little cousin, which means that I trusted 
you. All winter I have watched you, and the world 
has watched you, also ; and we — the world and I — have 
come practically to the same conclusion. The world, 
that you love Marion, and I, that your attentions de- 
mand explanation.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Saunders ! ” And Creswick leaned 
forward eagerly; but the well-shaped hand, so white, 
so hard, went up in a gesture that Jane could have told 
him it was useless to combat. 

“ Especially as I find that these attentions have had 
serious effect.” 


375 


The Making of Jane 

There was dead silence for a moment, then Creswick 
said, slowly : “As a chaperon, my dear Mrs. Saun- 
ders, you are over-anxious. I have approached your 
cousin only as a friend, and promise that I will not do 
otherwise.” 

“ Thank you. As I began by saying, I trusted you ; 
I thought that the talk which we enjoyed one fateful 
afternoon had sufficiently impressed my views on you 
as to the attention permissible. Your attentions to 
Jane were not at all marked, and I had there some ex- 
cuse for my lack of suspicion, especially when I had 
discovered that the young woman’s affections were 
placed elsewhere.” 

Creswick winced a little, but kept his eyes fixed on 
Mrs. Saunders with the same quiet, inquiring look. 

“ This is quite true,” she went on, as if in answer 
to the slight movement ; “ but now, all winter, in fact, 
your attentions to Marion have been most marked.” 

“ As a brother, Mrs. Saunders ; as a man who was 
and is desperately in love with her elder sister ; as one 
who looked on this girl as a trust to be guarded and 
made happy for the sake of the elder sister.” 

“ Most admirable ; but, unfortunately, sisters seldom 
look on things of this kind with just such magnanimous 
eyes, and chaperons have no right to. You made no 
such explanations.” 

“ You knew.” 

“ Nothing but that ‘ Men have died, and worms have 
eaten them, but not for love.’ I knew that one sister 
had refused you, and that nothing was more natural 
than that love should be caught on the rebound by the 

376 


The Making of Jane 

other sister. After all, you are but a man, with like 
passions ” 

“ With one passion,” Creswick interrupted, “ that 
will never die.” 

“ You are unfortunate in the way in which you show 
that fact to your friends. You should have told the 
child this.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“ And have warded off what has happened.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Saunders, you are mistaken in your 
suggestion; pray do not make it again. For Miss 
Marion Ormonde's sake, for your own sake, I beg you 
to desist.” 

Mrs. Saunders drew a rose from a vase near by, let- 
ting all the long, wet stem and leaves trail across her 
dainty ribbons, her fresh laces. She looked deep into 
the heart of it, she drew it through her half-closed hand 
once, twice, thrice, each time more quickly, more reck- 
lessly, at last dragging it to death and casting it from 
her, then looking down on her open palm, torn by the 
thorns. 

The silence between them grew tense, Creswick look- 
ing at her, she looking down at her hand; so tense 
that Creswick could not stand it; he rose. 

“ Mrs. Saunders — ” It was as if a spell had been 
broken. 

“ Hush ! ” And she struck her hands together. 
“ Hush ! No more smooth excuses ; the child loves you 
— loves you — oh, God ! loves you with all her untouched 
heart ; lives only in your presence ; watches your every 
movement ; tells me softly of each word you say, each 

377 


The Making of Jane 

look you give her, whispering ‘ He loves me, cousin, 
he loves me, and earth is turned to Heaven ! ’ And you 
stand here calmly,” rising and facing Creswick, “ stand 
here and tell me coldly that you mean nothing? All 
these long months dogging her footsteps, claiming her 
at balls, standing possessively behind her chair in the 
full blaze of the whole opera-house! You mean noth- 
ing, have meant nothing, you have always loved her 
sister; her sister, who kept you dangling, to hide her 
affair with Mark Witting ; who allowed Mark Witting 
to think her my heiress ; whom Mark Witting, finding 
out, quietly jilted? Who, finding herself discovered, 
fled?” 

Creswick stood still before her, grown white, the 
lines about his lips drawn sharply. 

“ Look back,” coming closer to him. “ Look back, 
think, recall, and you will see my words written in fire 
of truth ! Mark Witting’s attentions were quiet, paid 
under cover of your attentions. Suddenly Mark Wit- 
ting goes away; you remember? And Jane changed; 
looked ill ; talked strangely ; found that Mark Witting 
had confessed to me, and fled. Look back — think — 
remember ! ” 

Again the silence grew tense between them, as if 
there were no hum in the street ; as if all life were be- 
ing stilled with the life of the man who listened. 

“ She did not flee at once,” the low voice went on; 
“ she was too deep for that — perhaps you would say 
'reserved’? — but waited, waited, in order to save 
appearances. And I, sorry for her, wishing to put 
something between us that would make life together 
378 


The Making of Jane 

bearable; wishing to seem as if I had forgiven, had 
forgotten, had cured me of my contempt, I sent for 
her young sister. Thank God that she did save appear- 
ances, for ugly things could and would have been said. 
I did not tell you, no; I wished to help her to save 
appearances. All the autumn you read together and I 
hoped that she had come to her senses, was ashamed, 
was coming to appreciate you; but again she was using 
you as a screen; using you to hide her plans; and for 
aught I know, she may be using you still. You are a 
loyal gentleman; yes, you are that, but you have de- 
ceived me.” 

She walked away to the window; she stood there 
looking out to where the sun had crept up to the edge 
of the window-awnings, throwing up from the hot 
pavement a reflected light that the window-plants 
turned green before it reached the ceiling. She looked 
down to the glaring sunshine, followed it up to the 
plants, to the ceiling, pausing a moment with raised 
head, then went back, went close to Creswick and 
looked into his eyes. 

“ You hate me,” she said. “ I do not blame you ; 
I have cast down your idol ; I have torn the veil away 
from all your illusions; I seem to have wrecked your 
life ; but you drove me to it. When I could have told 
you, nearly a year ago, I did not do it ; I was willing 
to sacrifice you, because I was trying to save my own. 
I hoped that Jane would have sense enough to accept 
you and take her proper place in life and the world. 
Yes, I would have sacrificed you to Jane, but I will 
not sacrifice Marion ; never ! Jane it is who has 

379 


The Making of Jane 

wrecked her own life, my husband’s life, your life ; 
but she shall not wreck Marion’s life; never! You 
have blundered; blundered because you were blinded, 
deceived ; and blunders are paid for pretty much as sins 
are ; you have blundered, and the day of reckoning is 
here. How could I know that you stood behind Mar- 
ion’s chair because you had got into the habit of stand- 
ing behind her sister’s chair ? How could I know that 
you looked into her eyes, danced with her, sent her 
flowers, sat dances out with her all for her sister’s 
sake? How could she know it? I gave you credit 
for some sense, and she, in her ignorance and innocence, 
mistook it all for love. If any woman had treated you 
in that way, you would quickly enough have thought 
that she loved you. What is a woman to do but accept 
attentions, and believe that a gentleman means them? 
That having deliberately wakened her heart, having 
made her betray her feelings, he will stand to his ac- 
tions. And a gentleman will, ‘ though it were to his 
own hindrance ’ ” 

For one moment Creswick seemed galvanized into 
life ; she had quoted from his own creed. 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Saunders went on, and she laid her 
hand on his arm; “ I quote scripture to bear me out; 
but why need I? Custom, breeding, truth, honor, 
everything is on my side. Jane does not love you, 
you know that; your only hope was to wear her out; 
to create, as you expressed it, the Creswick habit. 
Even that seems now a forlorn hope. She has gone off 
to live her own life, to make her own career — God 
knows what it will end in — but if justice is meted out to 
380 


The Making of Jane 

her, nothing good ought to come to her. You tell me 
that she is satisfied, is successful; and whatever that 
may mean, it does not seem to mean that she is hunger- 
ing or thirsting for you. My conclusions seemed to me 
to warrant me in permitting your attentions to Marion. 
I could not believe for one moment that you did not 
mean them ; I can scarcely credit my senses now when 
you tell me that you have not meant them. You must 
mean them! you must justify her to the world that is 
gabbling about it all ! At least let her go to Europe 
engaged to you, and I promise that I will object to the 
match. I will work tooth and nail to wean her away 
from you ; I will proclaim her my heiress ; I will dazzle 
her with the world and worldly things, and persuade 
her to release you. Let me tell her that you came this 
morning to ask permission to address her? This is 
Wednesday; we sail on Saturday. For only two days 
you will have to wear a mask, will have to see us off 
with fruit and flowers, then you will have long months 
in which to come to an agreement with yourself. I 
can and will prolong indefinitely our stay in Europe. 
You can go into business, any kind of business, as an 
excuse for not following us. I seem to be laying deep 
and devious plans to deceive this child whom I love; 
don’t think it. I am, instead, trying to save her the 
first break to her heart; trying to ward off the first 
deadening blow that turns all the world black ; trying 
to make a woman’s awful lesson of life a little easier to 
her. Think; I’ve had no children of my own. My 
heart was hungry and I took Jane ; from the first mo- 
ment, she defied me; all our life together was one long 
331 


The Making of Jane 

effort. She would not love me; and until Marion 
came, I thought that perhaps she could not; but this 
child came to me with open arms ; she loved me at once. 
In this little while she has given me the love I craved ; 
and must I not be grateful? Must I not love her, 
and try to save her ? I am not trying to deceive her ; 
no, I am trying to make it so easy for you that you will 
be persuaded not to strike her ; poor little trustful child ! 
Only for two days, then I will take her away and re- 
lieve you of anything save a weekly composition. It 
will not be hard, and I will strive, that you shall not 
be called upon to consummate it.” 

She stopped abruptly, and on the deathly stillness 
there broke the mad clamor of a street-organ. Through 
all the storm of words Creswick had stood absolutely 
still, with his eyes fixed on a picture — a woman, was all 
he saw — then, as the voice beside him went on and on, 
he saw that the picture was Mrs. Saunders ; Mrs. Saun- 
ders, smiling a little; smiling while she told him such 
cruel things ; while, at her summons, such bitter mem- 
ories came back slowly, one by one, and smote him 
dully. No, he could not refute one word that she had 
said. Jane had refused him ; Jane had run away ; Jane 
did seem satisfied. In his pocket, at that moment, was 
her last letter, saying that she was not going to trouble 
him any more. Her shop had paid her, and there 
would be little doing through the summer. That she 
had tried his patience and his friendship severely, too 
severely. A letter that had seemed like a dash of cold 
water in his face when he had read it, until the end, 
when she said, “ You have been so good to me ! God 
382 


The Making of Jane 

bless you ! ” And Jane had talked to him about a man 
who had not been noble. Why did he remember that? 
And Witting had gone away just at that time, just a 
little before that time, amd she would not let him mail 
the package that day; that strange day, when every- 
thing had seemed to change. No, Jane did not love 
him, and Mrs. Saunders, smiling there on the wall, said 
that Marion did. But for this, he could go away, and 
at least hide himself, “ Have his dark hour unseen/’ 
Jane did not love him. It was none of his business 
whom she had loved ; but that Mark Witting should 
have jilted her; have cast away this woman whom he 
had looked on as too good, too pure, too sweet i Mark 
Witting had put his arm about her, perhaps. His heart 
seemed almost to stop beating; and the picture on the 
wall seemed to smile more mockingly. Great God! 
and he reverencing her as his own soul, had thrilled at 
the touch of her hand, had been almost sorry when she 
danced with him. When her face looked up so close 
to his he had turned his head away; and she had 
been jilted by Witting! His arm about her, perhaps 
Witting had not turned his head away ; had kissed her 
eyes — her lips! He put his hand on a chair-back to 
steady himself. 

The stream of words ceased; but now, along with 
the minor, “ rag-time ” melody of the hand-organ, they 
seemed to be coming back in waves, and breaking over 
him; as if they had waited somewhere until he had 
comprehended the story of Jane and Witting, and then 
had rushed up to him with other sorts of torture. And 
that tune, that clanging, brazen tune would ring in his 

383 


The Making of Jane 

mind and his ears till he died ! Then clearly through 
all he heard Mrs. Saunders say, “ Sit down, and let us 
finish.” 

That was kind, and he obeyed. After that, she 
looked at the clock, then rang the bell, and the man 
brought some wine and biscuits. She took another 
rose in her hand while the servant was there, and pulled 
off some of the petals, dropping them, one by one, on 
the other wrecked rose, and said what seemed to be 
queer, unmeaning things. 

“ I shall have to consider it carefully, Mr. Creswick,” 
she said. “ I shall have to consult my husband.” 
Then Simmons went away, shutting the door behind 
him. 

“ Drink some wine,” were her next words ; “ one 
does not look for such faithful hearts in these days ; 
Mark Witting took my revelations as to Jane quite dif- 
ferently ; drink some wine ; empty the glass. Leave the 
affair in my hands. I will not tell Marion until to- 
morrow ; you need not see her but once before we leave, 
and at the steamer, that will be before a crowd. I 
promise to help you out of it. After a little it will be 
better ; time heals everything.” 

“ Yes,” Creswick answered slowly, as if hunting for 
his words, while Mrs. Saunders watched his face anx- 
iously. What was he going to say, to do? Why 
would he not drink the wine she still held out to him, 
and bring some color back to his blue lips, some light 
to his dead eyes? How awful to lose all comeliness, to 
grow old in a few minutes ! 

“ Yes,” Creswick repeated, “ time cures things.” 

384 


The Making of Jane 

Then he rose from his chair and drew himself up, and, 
though the color nor the comeliness were back in his 
face, the eyes that looked into Mrs. Saunders’s eyes 
were not dead. Quiet they were, and cold as ice, and 
scornful, matching his voice. “ I feel very much 
honored by your suggestion,” he said, “ that I have 
found favor in the eyes of Miss Marion Ormonde. 
With your permission, Mrs. Saunders, I will call to- 
morrow evening to receive her answer. Good-morn- 
ing.” 

And Simmons, ushering him out, and returning to 
remove the unusual tray, found wine-stains everywhere, 
and a shattered glass on the floor with the scattered 
rose-leaves. 


385 


XXIV 


“ White shall not neutralize the black, nor good 
Compensate bad in man, absolve him so : 

Life’s business being just the terrible choice. ” 

I T was an extraordinary piece of news! Jane sat 
quite still in the shop with a note in her hand. 
The grocer next door had brought it to her, and there 
were greasy finger-marks defacing the white correct- 
ness of the envelope, and an odor of coal-oil lurking 
about it and mingling incongruously with the faint 
perfume of violets with which Mrs. Saunders had en- 
dued it. She had been surprised to see that it was 
from Mrs. Saunders, then had smiled to think how 
Mrs. Saunders would have shuddered if she could 
have seen the present condition of her missive. Of 
course there would be something in it to hurt her; 
Mrs. Saunders never wrote unless she had a special 
shaft to send. But the day was so hot, and she was 
so tired, so unrecovered from the strain, the ridicu- 
lous strain of the shop and the school together; and 
the flies had so buzzed, and droned, and tickled her 
senses away that she seemed to have lost some of her 
mind, and had opened the note carelessly. 

“ I write on the eve of sailing, my dear Jane, to 
tell you the happy news that Laurence Creswick has 
386 


The Making of Jane 

addressed Marion and has been accepted. He looks 
a different creature; you would scarcely know him, 
and there are no words to express my happiness, nor 
Marion’s. I have watched it coming all winter, and 
the only unhappy person is poor Mark Witting. Dear 
Laurence will join us in Europe in the autumn. We 
may be gone a year. I hope that you are accomplish- 
ing all that you set out to do. Laurence tells us that 
you are not only satisfied, but most successful. You 
will not bear malice if I say that at last I am reconciled 
to your departure; and Marion has pleased me so 
much that I am thinking of announcing her as my 
heiress. Good-by; I cannot help looking on you as 
mistaken. 

“Your affectionate cousin, 

“Jane Saunders.” 

The hum of the flies rose and fell almost rhythmi- 
cally. Louder, when weary of trying to get through 
the netting to the candy or the lemons, they would 
rise and join the throng that seemed to hum so aim- 
lessly in the upper air of the hot shop; lower, when 
another swarm would settle where their brethren had 
failed. Not a sound but this humming disturbed the 
drowsy noonday stillness, save the intermittent stamp- 
ing of a horse tied in front of the next shop, and the 
grind of a locust that somewhere, far away, scraped 
the song of the summer heat. So still that the hum 
of the flies seemed to be out of all proportion to their 
size and ability, and Jane looked up at them slowly. 
Presently some little negroes went by, wrangling 
387 


The Making of Jane 

among themselves; then a coatless clerk, with his 
sleeves held up with rubber straps, came in to ask for 
change. 

She rose, and the note slipped to the floor. The 
young man picked it up and held it while she found 
her purse, then gave it to her as he turned away. 
She read it over again, quite slowly; she went back 
to her seat and her work. Trimming a hat, the last 
of the season, probably, for a girl out in the country; 
after that she did not know what she would sell. Of 
course her stock was there, and if any more hats were 
wanted she could furnish them. Perhaps some more 
country girls would want hats. Since the hot weather 
had come the ladies of the town had ceased to as- 
semble for tea, even the iced tea failed to attract them. 

She looked about her. The words “ attract them ” 
made her wonder a little. “ Dear Laurence tells us 
that you are not only satisfied, but successful.” “ Dear 
Laurence” had obeyed her; she had ordered him to 
say that — she had impressed it on him that such was 
the case. She clipped her thread and took a long 
time to knot it again. “ Waiting free until you shall 
need me,” he had said. Could this news be true? 
Loved someone else. Why had he not written to her 
about this engagement? Had he remembered his own 
protestations? Had he feared that she would care? 
He had loved her well — as well as he could. Men’s 
love seemed not very enduring. 

The thread was knotted now, and a few stitches 
taken. And what a strange thing if Marion should 
be announced the heiress of the money that Mark 
388 


The Making of Jane 

Witting had so wanted, and how strange that Mark 
Witting should also love Marion, and that she should 
prefer Laurence Creswick. Fate was ironical. Poor 
Mark! 

The day wore on. She went up the hot street to 
Mrs. Dunlap's for the early dinner, and did her best 
to eat it, but it was too hot, both the day and the din- 
ner, and in spite of the fly-brush which a negro waved 
incessantly the flies buzzed and hummed as unceas- 
ingly as they did down in the shop. 

“ I believe we're going to have a storm," Mrs. Dun- 
lap said, “ it’s so sultry. I think it’d almost kill you, 
Miss Jane." 

Jane shook her head, smiling. “We are hard to 
kill," she answered. 

Some more customers came in that afternoon, order- 
ing another hat, and later a storm did roll up, with 
vivid lightning and a sudden rush of rain. Jane went 
to the door, but in a moment it was over, and a steam 
seemed to be rising from the earth. The sun glared 
down even while the last drops of rain were tinkling 
in the gutters, and it seemed hotter than before. She 
went back to her work; it would be called for in the 
morning. It was an extremely ugly hat, she thought, 
and she hated it; and a red-headed, freckled girl, with 
light blue eyes and white eyelashes, was going to wear 
it. She was going to be married, and this was a part 
of her outfit, and she had looked so insanely happy. 
Did Marion look so? 

How awfully hot it was; how long would it be 
before the cool weather would come? She had arrived 

389 


The Making of Jane 

last year early in November, and fires were comfort- 
able, most comfortable. How bright and cool it had 
been on the hills then; those brown, empty uplands, 
where the wind had its own way and the crickets 
cried. She seemed to hear them now, almost, and al- 
ways connected with her first insane sense of freedom. 
What was freedom, save another way of saying re- 
sponsibility? 

She looked about her at her freedom. Everyone 
had left her alone with it, quite alone. She was abso- 
lutely free, and she owned the stock in this wonderful 
shop! It was a great thing, freedom, of course it was; 
practically it was all, and she still valued it. She had 
been right, perfectly right. Marion’s future would be 
far more brilliant than hers, and possibly much hap- 
pier, but then Marion had been fortunate enough to 
fall in love with the right man. Some people were 
more fortunate than others ; that was all. Some peo- 
ple had to fight every foot of the way through life, 
while others, like the dreadful hymn, were carried to 
heaven on “ Flowery beds of ease.” She would write 
both to Marion and Creswick that night, sending 
Marion’s letter to the bankers in London. How well 
she knew the address. It seemed to her that one of 
her lives or the other must be a dream. 

Day after day she went down to the shop, her trade 
decreasing as the heat increased; but she was always 
in her place, growing paler and thinner meanwhile. 
A break came in a note from Creswick, the only brief 
note she had ever had from him, thanking her for her 
good wishes. Absolutely correct, but not one word 
390 


The Making of Jane 

more. She was glad on the whole, because it called 
for no answer, and, not writing to him, the last link 
with her old life would be broken. Better so. Then 
an ecstatic note from Marion, ending: “And just 
think, I can always live in New York now; I can go 
to Europe whenever I like, and always have beautiful 
things ! ” 

After this the summer seemed to close in on her, 
as it were, and the smell of watermelons to pervade 
the air. Every negro, big and little, seemed to be 
able to eat melons at all hours of the day, and to be 
allowed to eat them where they pleased, and to be fol- 
lowed usually by pigs that gobbled up the rinds. At 
first she had had the energy to be astonished and to 
inquire, but Mr. Dunlap’s answer that the negroes 
voted down all laws of public cleanliness reduced her 
energy to keeping them from the front of her own 
door. Later she had given up even this protest; she 
had come to watch the greedy joy of the melon-eaters 
with some amusement, and after them the pigs that 
squealed and grunted and jostled each other over the 
debris. Sometimes the Dunlap children would come 
to the shop; sometimes Tena would be left there by 
a servant who was going farther on an errand, and on 
Sunday afternoons Jane would take them to walk as 
of old; a walk that really became something to look 
forward to, and she began to realize the possible vivid- 
ness of a small joy in a monotonous life. Yes, she 
was learning many things, more especially what a 
minor woe flies were in comparison with mosquitoes! 

Life went with deadly quietude, deadly regularity. 
391 


The Making of Jane 

There was no hurry, no push; there could not be in 
this heat. Never in all her life before had she felt so 
listless, so as if all her muscles had been cut. She 
even ceased to wonder why the town had been built 
down in a hollow. She had an unacknowledged feel- 
ing that the wood, and stones, and bricks had rolled 
down the hills and that the people had piled them up 
anyhow, anywhere, to shelter themselves from the 
sun. She’d never blame anyone again for anything 
in a climate like this. 

Sitting in the shop, ripping some of the superfluous 
lace off of one of her last summer frocks, looking 
from time to time at some small negroes and their pig 
satellites eating melons on the curb, and smiling a 
little at herself that she could be as she was now, and 
looking back at herself as she had been when last she 
had worn the frock in hand, she heard a step coming 
down the empty, sun-baked street, a step strangely 
alert and firm for the season, and an authoritative 
voice that scattered the pickaninnies and the pigs, and 
Ned Beaton came in. It was the first time that he 
had ever been in the shop, and his greeting was to 
look about him with a smile, then to come forward to 
where she had risen from her seat. 

“ I have been wishing to come here for some time,” 
he began, shaking hands with her, and taking the 
chair she offered, “ but I’ve been dreadfully busy, and 
have been over here only once, to your celebration.” 

Jane smiled slowly. “ I was done to death that 
afternoon,” she said, in an almost toneless voice. 

“ You looked so ; but not so dead as now.” 

392 


The Making of Jane 

His hand had been so cool and firm, his white clothes 
and hat were so immaculate, his voice was so deep 
and strong that new life seemed to be creeping into 
the air. 

Jane raised her eyes to his. “ It is the heat,” she 
said, hesitatingly, as if not quite certain. 

“ Because you are fighting it,” was answered, 
promptly. “We cannot defy climate,” he went on, 
“ any more than we can defy fate, and there is no use 
in trying. All that one can do in the arctic zone is 
to keep warm, and in the torrid to keep cool; and to 
attempt to bring the energy or the fashions of one zone 
into another is the purest folly. At this time of the 
year and day all people in this section should be tak- 
ing siestas in appropriate draperies, with iced melons 
on one hand and iced lemonade on the other, and 
little darkies to wave fans.” 

“ This is meant for me, I suppose.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ And my shop?” 

“ Seems just now as if it could keep itself.” 

Again Jane looked up and smiled with him. 

“ But,” Beaton went on, “ I’ve come on business, 
and wish to ask a few very direct questions; may I? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Has this thing paid you?” 

“ I have cleared a little money on it.” 

“ Tell me.” 

“ There is not much to tell. I added the freight, 
and the rent for six months, and the cost of my stock 
together, and priced things accordingly, and have 

393 


The Making of Jane 

cleared fifteen dollars in all, and now everything that 
I sell is clear gain.” 

“And where did you buy your stock?” 

“ In New York.” 

“ Your freights must have been heavy.” 

“Yes, but in addition to millinery I have had a 
tea-table.” 

“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair and looked 
at the girl. She had grown very thin, but the anatomy 
of her face was good, and her skin was transparently 
clear. She was in white, and all the folds of lace she 
was ripping, and that she had thrown up over her 
shoulder to keep it off the floor, made a diaphanous 
cloud about her that lent to the delicacy of her appear- 
ance. She went on with the ripping, the clip, clip of 
her scissors and the hum of the flies being the only 
sounds to break the stillness. Presently the silence, or 
Beaton’s intent look, caused her to raise her eyes, and 
she asked : “ Is there anything else ? ” 

“ Of course,” came quickly, “ of course. I did not 
come simply to explore your affairs. But first, about 
the school; will you continue the shop along with 
the school ? ” 

Jane shook her head. “ I do not think that I can 
do that again; my present plan is to give up the school. 
There is not much future in this shop, but there is 
more than in a select school.” 

“ That is just what I wanted to know, but I had 
first to try to gauge your business abilities. You were 
perfectly inexperienced, of course, and you have made 
this little venture pay, and that in an absolutely dead 

394 


The Making of Jane 

town; further, you are still headstrong enough to 
wish to continue in business.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then my proposition is to buy you out, lock, 
stock, and barrel, as we say down here, and to move 
you over to my town.” 

Jane stopped her clipping, and raised her head. 

“ There is plenty of money behind me,” Beaton 
went on, “ and I am manager of and for that money. 
We have made a combination with another company, 
and their iron-ore is to be brought down to our coal, 
and we are to have furnaces and the like. The de- 
tails do not matter just now, but we are on the main 
line of road, and the other fellows are on a branch 
line; so it’s cheaper for them to come to us, and this 
means a growing town in a very little while. So far, 
we have only one shop over there, which I personally 
own. I do not keep it, but I built it and stocked it. 
My plan is to build regular department shops, and 
have clerks and bookkeepers and the rest of it, and I 
come to offer you the head of one of the departments, 
with your expenses and fifty dollars a month.” 

Jane was listening intently. 

“ It is not a nice town yet,” he continued; “ but 
it is in higher country than this, and much cooler. 
Everything is new and rough, but clean; I can assure 
you of that; and everything possible will be done to 
make you comfortable. Further, there is no risk in 
it for you, and, let me tell you, the old women in this 
town wear their bonnets for fifty years.” 

“ Is there any future in it?” 

395 


The Making of Jane 

“Any higher salary? Yes.” 

“Not that. Is there any advancement; can I rise 
to the top if I show ability; can I be a part of the 
business, and grow along with the speculation? You 
said once,” fastening her eyes on him, “ that no woman 
was ever allowed to rise to the top of any corporation 
where men were engaged, and so I imagine that you 
are taking me simply as a woman who has managed 
a very small venture so as not to swamp herself ; who 
may earn a larger salary as time goes on; may even 
be the head of a department. I won’t go on those 
terms.” 

“ I said,” Beaton answered, slowly, as if a little bit 
surprised, “ I said that women did not rise to such 
positions because they could not be depended on, and 
we could not depend on them because at any moment 
they might give up the position for matrimony. I 
was half way in fun,” he continued, taking up the 
flounce and holding it, so that Jane could go on more 
readily with the ripping which she had resumed, “ but 
what I said was true.” 

“ Say it again.” 

“Why, a man, of course, may marry just as soon 
as he pleases, and it makes no difference to his em- 
ployer, or to the company of which he is a member; 
but a woman is otherwise. However hard the case 
may seem, it is nevertheless the case. Law — limita- 
tion — is everywhere, and your law, your limitations, 
stand up and say, ‘ you must pause here and make 
choice, choice between marriage and achievement!’ 
A man may accomplish both, a woman may not.” 

30 


The Making of Jane 

“ Yes/’ Jane said, slowly, then added, “ and I would 
be free to choose? ” 

I think so; I think that I can arrange it if you 
pledge yourself,” and Beaton looked at her curiously. 

There was silence after this, when the hum of the 
flies and the snip of Jane’s scissors again came into 
prominence; but she made no answer, and Beaton 
kept his eyes fixed on her with the same inquiring 
look. 

“ There is another possibility,” he said at last, “ that 
a woman might achieve a fortune early in life, say in 
the thirties, then of course she would be at liberty 
to say to some comely young man, * I have made a 
fortune; let us join forces and be happy/” 

Jane looked up quickly. 

Beaton shook his head. “ I mean no harm,” he 
said, “ we are talking now as two human beings dis- 
cussing a problem, not as warring sexes; and doubt- 
less the young man would say yes, and spend her 
money with alacrity.” 

Jane returned to her clipping, giving Beaton an- 
other bit to hold, in a quite unconscious way. 

“ This state of things may obtain in the future,” 
Beaton went on, “ and we cannot say until it is tried 
whether it will be a good or a bad change. For one 
thing, women will have to take life less hysterically, 
and will have to regard love as men regard it. Men 
love each other and women deeply and strongly, but 
if a friend betray one, if a love is false, it is not allowed 
to wreck one’s life. Life must go on, and go on in 
connection with others, and it is not morally sanitary 

397 


The Making of Jane 

to have graves all about in one’s inner consciousness. 
All such views will have to be altered; women will 
have to become hardened to many things, and men’s 
taste in women will have to change. If women enter 
the lists with men they must expect the same hard 
knocks that men get. I’ll grant, God knows, that 
they get many hard knocks now, poor souls; but buf- 
fetings given in private are very different to buffetings 
given in public. And the misery is, that if this state 
of things obtains, we cannot tell how it is going to 
turn out until we have tried it. That’s the trouble 
with all progress; we are obliged to go plunging 
along blindly most of the time, and all the while know- 
ing that, good or bad, there is no return. And if in 
this case our sisters, and daughters, and wives grow 
to be as hard as nails, we’ll have to grin and bear it 
— as I said before, change our taste in women. But 
we don’t want to; women were made to be tender 
and gentle; they were meant to be timid, and de- 
pendent; to be mothers; their eyes were made so 
sweet to answer the looks of their little children; they 
were made to keep life kind, to make the world beau- 
tiful; why should they strive to be different, to enter 
our field of labor? We don’t want you there, because 
we love you as you are, where you are. We are not 
jealous of your progress, but anxious that the poetry 
of life shall not turn itself into prose; that the roses 
shall not become cornstalks and cabbages; that the 
vines shall not become stiff saplings.” He drew a 
long breath and let more flounce slip through his fingers. 
“ This is not business,” he went on, “ though it came 
398 


The Making of Jane 

out of our business talk quite naturally. To return, 
there is no need to hurry you in this matter, and you 
may have a week for consideration.” 

Jane neither looked up nor answered, and Beaton 
waited patiently. Quickly the sharp little scissors did 
their work, and he observed that they had delicately 
chased silver handles; that the lace he was holding 
was fine; and the gown itself of a most delicate web. 
What had brought the girl down to her present sur- 
roundings, and what was she thinking now? The 
curve he had so admired in her cheek and throat was 
gone, but there was a square set to her delicate chin 
that pleased him just as well, perhaps better. The 
girl was high-strung, was spirited; how dreadful for 
her to be in the plough! — and he spoke again: 

“ Let me take the liberty,” he said, “ of begging 
you to turn back; let me persuade you to decline my 
proposal, to give up this losing fight and to go back 
to where you came from. Believe me, the beaten 
track is best. Somewhere there is a better life for you 
than this; somewhere there is someone waiting for 
you — someone longing for you ” 

All the bundle of lace and lawn fell about him with 
a quick dash, and Jane walked swiftly down the shop 
to the door. Beaton sat quite still, not moving under 
the burden cast upon him, save to turn his head in 
the direction of the girl who stood in the doorway. 
She looked up and down the street, not seeming to 
heed the glare of the sun that fell all about her; then 
across to where, exactly opposite, the little negroes, 
driven away by Beaton, had taken their seats. She 

399 


The Making of Jane 

could see the whites of their eyes as they rolled them 
around over the tops of the sections of melon in which 
the rest of their faces were buried. What a ridiculous 
picture! They were watching the shop, too; waiting 
possibly for their enemy to appear, and ready for in- 
stant flight. How funny they were, and how inde- 
scribable was their lingo, mixed with the squeaks of 
the pigs. “ Go back to the one who is longing for 
you,” that was almost as funny as the little negroes 
and the pigs. “ The one who was waiting for her ! ” 
Once this man had said, “ To those who think, life is 
a farce ” — undoubtedly. Sum up her own life, its 
irony was amusing, most amusing. And men loved 
calmly, he said, and when a love or a friend failed 
them, nothing was wrecked. 

What would the little negroes do now? Their melon 
being eaten to the green skin, they were still watching 
the shop. She had seen them so often that she felt as 
if they were old friends, and many times they had di- 
verted her; they had almost become a part of her 
present death in life, that yet had been bearable. Men 
were wiser — much. The more she thought, the more 
forcible it all seemed, and for what did she need a 
week — to go back to the one who was longing, who 
was waiting? 

She turned with a last look at the jabbering little 
blacks, a glance that almost seemed to linger as if 
saying farewell. She walked slowly to her place, 
gathered back her work from where she had thrown it 
on Beaton, and sat down. “ I do not need a week,” 
she said, looking straight at her companion. “ If I 
400 


The Making of Jane 

am permitted, I will put my stock, my work, and what 
money I have into the business, and will ask to be a 
member of the company.” 

“ You persist? ” 

“ Yes, I mean to pledge myself to achievement.” 

“ Don’t,” and Beaton put out his hand as if to stop 
her from some immediate, tangible peril. 

Jane looked at the warning hand as if it were some- 
thing detached, then up into Beaton’s face. His usual 
expression of amused aloofness was gone, and in its 
place a new look; Jane studied it for a second, then 
began to roll up the lace she had ripped. 

“ Don’t,” he said again, and now he laid his hand 
on hers, stopping her work. 

“ If I may,” she answered, “ I will. I shall be ready 
to move to Newtown, Mr. Beaton, just as soon as you 
need me,” and she drew her hand from under his. 


401 


XXV 


“ With aching hands and bleeding feet 
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; 

We bear the burden and the heat 

Of the long day, and wish ’twere done. 

Nor till the hours of light return, 

All we have built do we discern." 

I T was a bitterly cold night between Christmas and 
New Year. The snow was falling thick and fast, 
and a howling wind was shaking everything that could 
be shaken, and driving the snow against Jane’s blind- 
less windows. There were shades to pull down and 
curtains to be drawn which would have shut out the 
wild night, but they had not been touched. The dying 
fire, too, needed to be repaired, and the hands of the 
clock were nearing the hour of midnight. 

From the day when she had given her decision to 
Ned Beaton, time for Jane had seemed to go at a 
hard run, and, despite heat, and dust, and languor, 
events had seemed to jump over each other in their 
haste, and she had been obliged to keep up with them. 
Of course there had been in Stony Ridge lamentations 
because of her leaving, especially from the children, 
and deep regrets from the mothers, who felt that never 
again could they hope to get such a stylish teacher as 
Jane. Added to this there had been solemn warnings 
402 


The Making of Jane 

whispered among the mothers, and conveyed to Jane 
by Mrs. Dunlap, warnings as to what people would 
say when she went to Newtown under the patronage 
of such a man as Ned Beaton. Jane had seemed to 
listen, but her preparations had gone on without pause. 
She had not even asked what they knew against Ned 
Beaton; his explanation of why he had been called a 
“ sooty sheep ” had amused her, and for the rest was 
his own business, not hers. He could not hurt her; 
talk could not hurt her; nothing could hurt her but 
her own folly; nothing had ever hurt her but her own 
folly. She was always taking steps, good, bad, or in- 
different ; she would take another and, sooner or later, 
she would reach either the bottom, or the top step, 
she did not know which, she had not cared very much, 
but she had felt that she must go on stepping. She had 
seemed to be a little bit glad to take this step, and 
she had not reasoned why; she had been glad to lock 
the shop-door finally, glad to look her last on the 
hats and bonnets of Stony Ridge, then in a vehicle 
sent over from Newtown, she and her belongings had 
been driven away up the long yellow road, where Tena 
waved her little handkerchief over the gate, and where, 
from the hill-top, Jane took a farewell look over the 
village and across the high green uplands that, when 
she had first seen them, had been so brown and wind- 
blown, and where the crickets had cried. 

She had found Newtown worthy of its name. Up- 
hill and down-hill ; clay roads and stumps ; primeval 
forests with the names of streets nailed to the trees. 
“ Newtown Stores,” as her place of work was called, 
403 


The Making of Jane 

was the most imposing building in the place, and from 
the moment of her entrance there her life had been 
crammed full of work. She had found, also, that the 
Ned Beaton of Newtown was quite a different person 
from the Ned Beaton of Stony Ridge. Clear-headed, 
prompt, unswerving, nothing done because she was a 
woman or a friend. She had made her choice, and he 
had agreed, and from the first she had been treated 
as a partner in a business concern, and had been early 
taught that she had to look out for her own interests. 
It had not been play. The place was rushing on with 
the sudden, marvellous growth of the towns of the 
present day, and the “ Stores ” were designed to fill 
every possible want of the people so completely, and 
at such prices, that no private venture could live under 
its shadow. It was the scheme of Ned Beaton, con- 
sented to and invested in by the rest of the company, 
and Jane, before having been allowed to enter, had 
been obliged not only to be vouched for in every par- 
ticular and to invest all her little savings, but had to 
borrow money in order to be able to put in the amount 
required from each member of the company. By ad- 
vice, her next move had been to insure her life for the 
amount borrowed, and she had then entered into the 
work with an excitement such as she had never felt 
before in her life or had ever dreamed it was possible 
for her to feel. 

The summer, and autumn, and winter had swept by 
with bewildering swiftness, and the town and the Stores 
had developed beyond the greatest expectations ; for all 
the small towns and villages, every cross-road shop, 

404 


The Making of Jane 

and blacksmith, and carpenter came there to buy their 
stock and tools. Department after department had 
been inaugurated ; experts of all kinds were employed, 
and Jane found her office-hours growing longer and 
longer, and had felt almost as if all the business of the 
world met and centred on her desk. 

According to agreement she had started at the top 
of the first department, and since then her effort had 
been to stay at the top; to hold the sway successfully 
as the business spread and enlarged. Of course Ned 
Beaton had been there for her to consult, and once a 
month an overlooking of every department took place, 
and not yet had he questioned any of her arrange- 
ments; nevertheless, his only word of praise had been: 
“We are so successful, Miss Ormonde, that even the 
Jew pack-peddlers have given up this section.” 

At last Christmas had come, and Jane remembered, 
almost as she remembered the cut-flower gardens and 
dust cities of her childhood, that the money which had 
been the germ of all her advancement she had received 
from her father and cousin just one year ago. She 
had not told her father of her change of work or of 
residence; she had not wished to face further disap- 
proval until she was sure of success — until she was 
out of debt. To compass this her letters were still 
allowed to go to Stony Ridge, and so it happened that 
it was not until a day or two after her one day's holi- 
day at Christmas that the memorials of the season 
reached her. No check had come this time, because 
she had protested against it, so there were only a few 
little mementoes and letters, one of which she now 
405 


The Making of Jane 

held in her hand, one that had seemed to make her 
forget the falling temperature of the room and the 
uses of the curtains. 

Very still she sat, while the dead, white ashes gath- 
ered over the fire and the snow banked drearily against 
the windows. 

Laurence Creswick ruined; Marion engaged to 
Mark Witting! That was what she had read in her 
mother’s letter that had seemed so strange. Was it 
she who was confused or the letter? She had read it 
more than once, but the confusion remained. Her 
mother was puzzled, and her father. There was some- 
thing extraordinary behind it all. What had Mrs. 
Saunders done; what was Marion suffering? Her 
mother was confused, her father puzzled; they could 
not understand Mrs. Saunders. Perhaps — perhaps they 
might now begin to understand her! 

“ Lost his fortune by wild speculation,” the letter 
said, and yet Laurence Creswick had never been in 
business. It seemed an impossible thing. Had Marion 
jilted him first, and then had he thrown away his 
money? That was the order in which the facts had 
been mentioned; that was what Mrs. Saunders would 
like them to believe; but that was not like Laurence 
Creswick. He was too well balanced, too sensible. 
Despair would never possess him to that extent. He 
had loved her , herself, she knew that he had loved 
her. “ Waiting free until you may need me, will not 
be waste,” he had said. He had loved her deeply ; 
later she had added, as deeply as he could. And a man 
who could change so quickly would be too fickle to 
406 


The Making of Jane 

be driven to desperation. Had he really loved Marion? 
Why had she accepted that as true? There was some- 
thing extraordinary behind. And Marion had seemed 
to be so fortunate; she had loved the right man, the 
rich man; according to the letter she had rendered 
the rich man desperate by jilting him in order to marry 
the poor one. That was not like Mrs. Saunders. 

The rich man had lost his money; how, why? Why 
had he touched speculation? Why had he not gone 
with them to Europe, and idled the time away? It 
would have gone quickly, so quickly in a dream of love. 
Why had they not married at once? But now Mark 
Witting was the lover. How soft his voice could be, 
how winning his smile. And he would get the money 
he had wanted. Her thoughts seemed to halt. How 
did she know that Mark Witting had wanted the 
money ? She had had no proof ; had never had any 
proof except Mrs. Saunders’s word. 

She drew her hand across her brow. Too late to 
go back to that; yet, just a moment. WhaJ: would 
have been Mrs. Saunders’s motive? Mark Witting 
was poor, Laurence Creswick was rich. And who was 
it had told her that Mark Witting was dangling after 
his old aunt, hoping to inherit her fortune? Mrs. 
Saunders. Too late to go back to that; but how easily 
she had been managed — if she had been managed. 

The murder of her childhood, the murder of her 
youth. She clasped her hands about her knees, 
crumpling the letter in them, and swayed back and 
forth a little in her chair. Too late for that, and she 
had no proof. She straightened up and smoothed the 
407 


The Making of Jane 

letter out. She had let that part of her life go. That 
Jane Ormonde, so young, so cowed, so desperate, had 
been done to death long ago. The murder of her 
childhood; the murder of her youth. That Jane Or- 
monde was dead and buried, and her grave levelled 
and sodded over decently. Let it be. Poor girl; poor 
little child; and there had been no one to have mercy! 

Again she smoothed the letter, smoothed it out as 
carefully as if it were a vital thing that it should be 
returned into the original folds. Two sisters and one 
set of lovers, what a poor little farce ! Men took things 
more quietly. “ If a friend or a love were false, it did 
not wreck things.” This last man, this Ned Beaton, 
with his cheerful smile, had said that. He had had 
occasion to study women, he had said, of course, and 
who knew what his study had done; who knew where 
the women were who could have told. Did not wreck 
things. She stopped smoothing the letter. It was 
not true, for here was a man who apparently had 
wrecked things. And women took life too hysteri- 
cally; what more hysterical than to throw away a 
fortune? and a man, a well-balanced man had done 
that. Why had he done it? — a whole big fortune. 
How strange it was, and now he was free once more. 
She would give no sign. “ Hard as nails,” she would 
be a flint before life had done with her, life and Mrs. 
Saunders. 

She laughed a little, then looked about her as if 
startled, as if the echoing sound of her own mirth had 
wakened her. She looked at the dying fire, at the 
ghostly staring windows, and began to shiver. All 
408 


The Making of J ane 

over, from head to foot, she shivered. Mrs. Saunders 
would kill her yet. Never! She would be sane, she 
would stop shivering. No one should ever know. 
She would stamp down the grave of that child, that 
Jane Ormonde, flatter still, until no vestige remained. 
She would never wonder, never investigate, never go 
below the surface of what Mrs. Saunders had done, 
of what Mrs. Saunders’s motives had been. The judg- 
ment-day would be soon enough to solve the problem ; 
would be soon enough to know how nearly Mrs. Saun- 
ders was related to the fates. Now this present Jane 
Ormonde, the head of the Newtown Department 
Stores, would build the fire; would draw the curtains; 
would stop shivering; would harden, harden to the 
nails that life could not hurt; would go to bed. 

In the pile of ordinary correspondence on her desk 
the next day she came upon a letter from Mr. Saun- 
ders. He had not written to her since the Christmas 
before, so of course it was only a Christmas letter. 
There was only a second’s hesitation, then the little 
paper-cutter slipped in and along the edge as swiftly 
and as surely as usual. The Christmas check which 
she could not forestall as she had done her father’s, 
because she had no right to presume on its being sent, 
and she put it down quickly. Only a half-sheet, writ- 
ten late at night from his club in Paris. All were well. 
Marion, Mrs. Saunders, and Witting were at the opera. 
Jane must always remember that, though he did not 
write, she was continually in his thoughts, and she 
must call on him at any time for anything; he loved 
her very much, and had never forgiven himself. Yes, 
409 


The Making of Jane 

there was something very strange behind, but it was 
not for her to investigate. Mark Witting nor Lau- 
rence Creswick were anything to her now, nor was 
she responsible for Marion. From the letters of Mar- 
ion, which had been forwarded to her, the girl seemed 
spirited enough. Her childhood had not been cowed, 
and she was capable of taking care of herself. It was 
wiser for Jane to keep quiet, and she settled the mat- 
ter by answering Mr. Saunders to the club, as he had 
directed, and by saying frankly to her mother that 
she did not understand Marion nor Mrs. Saunders and 
their change of plan. Her hand trembled a little as 
she went on to the next letter of her pile, but only 
for a moment, then her nerves steadied, and business 
was resumed. 

After this she threw herself into her work with more 
earnestness than ever, and her past life, that for a 
moment had surged up about her so suddenly, flash- 
ing out at her so vividly, was put out of sight once 
more to become shadowy and unreal. The weeks 
went into months, and the spring came upon her with 
astonishing swiftness, but no further word had come to 
her concerning Creswick. The Saunders and Marion 
had not returned from Europe, and apparently were 
making no plans in that direction; but they seemed 
to be happy and well, and Marion wrote with seeming 
cheerfulness. “ She does not take things hysterically,” 
Jane said to herself, “ and is wiser than ever I was.” 

June came in hot and glaring, and Jane had been 
in Newtown for one year. It did not seem so long 
as that, and she felt a sudden gladness to think how 
410 


The Making of Jane 

swiftly and imperceptibly life sped by; how impossible 
it would be for it to seem long. As the town grew, 
the business would grow, and her life would be fuller 
and the days go more quickly. So it was that men 
lived down things. And she was prospering, too; she 
had almost paid her debt to Ned Beaton, would make 
the last payment in July, and that done, she would 
feel herself on the way to making the fortune she had 
laughed about; that, later, she had despaired over. 
In the middle of the month Ned Beaton came to her. 

“ I am going away for a week,” he said, “ at the 
end of that time I shall return, and as soon as things 
can be turned over to me I will take your place for a 
month. The first two weeks you will spend in New 
York as a buyer; the last two weeks you will take 
as a holiday.” 

“ I would rather have my holiday in the winter,” 
Jane said, quickly. 

“ You need it now,” Beaton answered, “ and for the 
good of the work you must take it. You don’t look 
quite as dead as you did last year at this time, but 
you look dead enough. Perhaps we can arrange for 
a week at Christmas also. Of course the company 
will pay all your expenses to and from New York — 
expenses, mind, not ticket,” smiling down at her, “ and 
all your expenses as a buyer. We will have a little 
while after I come back so that you can turn things 
over to me, and I only hope, Miss Ormonde, that 
I will do it half as well as you have done it. The 
company is thoroughly satisfied, and now that you are 
out of debt you can resign as any of us could, but we 
hope that you will not.” 


The Making of Jane 

Going back to New York! Of course in August it 
would be absolutely empty of anyone she knew, and 
she was glad that it should be so; but the very sight 
of the streets, of the Saunders’s house, of the dark 
green door and the egg-shaped brass knobs, and the 
round latch that had clicked! How strange to see it 
all again. She might see old Simmons — kind old 
Simmons, who stayed on so steadily, who was so de- 
voted to Mr. Saunders; who in a quiet way ruled 
Mrs. Saunders. She might see him; he used to be 
left in charge of everything when they were in Europe. 
Simmons had always been good to her, had always 
been sorry for her. Then she could spend her two 
weeks’ holiday at the seashore somewhere, she had a 
great longing for the water. There she could rest from 
working or feeling; keep still because the sea would 
be there to move continually and take the restlessness 
away. That would be a true reward for all her labor, 
for all the flies, for all the mosquitoes! She had not 
known how tired she was until the holiday had been 
offered her. For her New York would be empty, 
but she could walk the streets she knew; could go 
to the church of her childhood and sit in the same 
seat, the uncomfortable middle seat in the pew, and 
imagine Mr. and Mrs. Saunders at either end. She 
could drive in the park as she used to do, those weary 
long drives when all her faults and failings used to 
be led in review before her hopeless eyes. There would 
not be any opera or theatre to go to, but there would 
be memories enough without that. 

Going back to New York! Then a new thought 
412 


The Making of Jane 

came up, she would be entirely alone, absolutely un- 
attended ! Going to hotels, to watering-places alone ! 
How horrified Mrs. Saunders’s world would be, and 
she laughed. For a year she had worked with men, 
had had men working under her direction; how su- 
premely absurd a chaperon would seem to her now 
— what a bore! But Simmons would be shocked if 
he knew, and if she stumbled on any whom she had 
known they might ignore her because of her unpro- 
tected state. How funny! and she laughed, ending 
with a long sigh. What a poor, frightened thing she 
had been. 

There were no terrors for her in this journey, rather 
a sense of triumph was coming over her. In a meas- 
ure she had conquered fate; in a measure she had 
righted her life, had made a place for herself. She 
had blundered, she had made mistakes, she had suf- 
fered, but it was through all these things that she had 
developed. When she had broken away so blindly 
from her old life she had been guided by an instinct 
of self-preservation, and she had saved herself. She 
was a woman now, and a better, stronger woman than 
she would ever have been but for the course she had 
taken. Mrs. Saunders would think scorn of her pres- 
ent position, but now she had come to know that Mrs. 
Saunders understood only her own small world. A 
house in a certain locality, a dressmaker and tailor of 
certain standing; proper liveries, and rigid social lines 
were more to her than any consideration of soul or of 
the eternal heights. And how blindly in her imma- 
turity she had fought against these limitations. Later, 
413 


The Making of Jane 

she had descended to the depth of hating Mrs. Saun- 
ders; of wishing her evil; but now as she thought 
she seemed to be lifted above that. At the best, life 
was not so joyful a thing that one need wish another 
even a momentary evil. It is difficult to be forgiving 
when you are down in the ditch, and see your enemy 
on the greensward above you; but once you, your- 
self, have attained to the greensward, it is easier to 
endure the company of your enemy. She had at- 
tained to the greensward, and the past was taking its 
true perspective, and she had begun actually to pity 
her cousin. 

Also, the time had come when she could write to 
her father, send him a confession; tell him of all that 
she had done since opening her little shop, and ask 
him to forgive her that she had not told him before. 
Only success could have proved the wisdom of her 
venture, and she had waited for that. Ask his forgive- 
ness, and tell him how she longed to come home, and 
had longed all her life. She would write this just be- 
fore she left, and ask that the answer be sent to New 
York. There was a little exultation in the throbbing 
of her blood as she thought, and an excitement as to 
the answer that her letter would bring. Of course he 
would forgive her, and after a time he would allow 
her to help him. For a little while this vision had 
left her, but now again it was with her, giving point 
and compensation to her life. 

Going back to New York. How different life 
would look; how her relative values would have 
changed, and her understanding of things; she felt 
herself quite an old woman now. 

414 


The Making of Jane 

“ And I will meet you here, at this very spot, on 
the evening of the second of September,” Ned Beaton 
said as he stood with Jane on the railway platform. 
“ Remember that, and I pin you down because I am 
almost afraid to let you out of my sight, now that 
you are out of debt.” 

“ Am I not making a fortune? ” Jane asked. “ Am 
I not yet masculine enough to be held by money ? ” 

“ And is that all? Do you not love us a little bit? ” 
“ When one is training down to be as hard as nails, 
love is left out of the diet, is it not? ” 

“ You so often quote me to my own detriment.” 

“ Which proves that I always remember what you 
say. Good-by. You have been very good to me, and 
behind the 4 nails ’ I appreciate it deeply. Good-by,” 
and as long as she could see, he stood where she had 
left him on the platform. 


415 


XXVII 


“ I count life just a stuff 
To try the soul’s strength on.” 



HERE was a more flaring, glaring hotel farther 


X down the river on the cliffs that faced the sea, 
but Jane remembered from her childhood that the 
smaller hotel was considered the better. Mrs. Kennet 
used always to be at this smaller hotel, and old Mr. De- 
Long, and she thought that she would like to see them 
once more, if only from a distance. And they were 
there, but as yet she had not come near them. Possi- 
bly they would not remember her. If they should 
meet casually and they did remember, it would be well ; 
if not, it would be just as well. She had come, not for 
rest, but because of restlessness. 

Her little sense of triumph had died in New York, 
and its place had been taken by an irresistible sadness. 
She had gone to Mrs. Saunders’s dressmaker, who had 
been quite a moment in recognizing her, and then, while 
getting some garments that would permit her to go to 
the seaside, she heard some things that she could not 
understand, that puzzled her ; but she waited until she 
was properly clothed before she went near the house. 
She was sure that Simmons would be there, and she 
must look prosperous before Simmons saw her. And 
the old man had been glad, and had let her wander at 


416 


The Making of Jane 

will over the house, at the last standing before her as 
she sat in the drawing-room, telling her of the various 
changes. 

Colby was in Europe, of course, and there was no 
telling when Mrs. Saunders would come back ; and Mr. 
Saunders, Miss Jane would scarcely know him. Joseph 
had gone ; dismissed. It was Colby’s fault, telling 
Mrs. Saunders of what Joseph had said about the time 
when Mr. Witting had come so often in the mornings — 
“ The winter ye was goin’ to your classes, Miss Jane,” 
he explained, “ when me an’ Joseph was carryin’ your 
books. Mr. Witting did use to come, but not so often, 
after all, an’ that was all dead an’ gone, an’ what use 
had Colby to dig it up again?” — so Joseph had been 
dismissed. 

Things had seemed to waver a little before Jane’s 
eyes, for this had come strangely on top the gossip the 
dressmaker had let fall, but she steadied herself and 
said, gently : “ That could not have been the reason of 
his dismissal, Simmons, for everyone knew that Mr. 
Witting came to the house.” Then Simmons had an- 
swered, slowly : “ Yes, Miss,” and had changed the 
subject, saying that the doll-house had been sent to 
the Orphan Asylum. 

Some strange thoughts had come with her from the 
house, thoughts that she found hard to dismiss. New 
York was not helping her, she had decided, and as soon 
as her business and her clothes were finished, she had 
come away. She had gone about to one or two places 
that she remembered, but she could not bring herself 
to go to Hillside Springs. Old Mrs. Creswick would 
417 


The Making of Jane 

be there. No, that would not be possible; and she 
took her way to this seaside place that she remembered 
as a child. 

Horribly restless and as lonely, she had not realized 
what the old things and places meant until she had 
come back to them ; but now her time was up ; the next 
day she must leave, must go back to Newtown. Down 
through all the far hills and mountains, through all 
the dim wildernesses, to where Beaton, with his watch- 
ful eyes and amused smile, was waiting for her on the 
platform. Once more at work, all these idle suspicions 
would be driven from her mind — all these saddening 
memories would go to sleep again, and her ambitions 
would wake up once more, and once more she would 
think of herself as a success. The little tiny bit of a 
success, that had to go to a country town to find a level 
that was sufficiently low to throw it up as a height. 
The big dog of a small kennel. Ambition, yes, and 
aggressive staying power, that was what men had — 
women had endurance. Women were ambitious, too, 
but not ambitious enough, it seemed. A little success, 
a little praise satisfied them ; then they wanted rest and 
comfort. At least that was the rule; and she herself 
was tired, very tired. How Beaton would laugh if 
he could read her thoughts ; and if he were near her he 
could have read them ; his eyes were so keen, and he had 
studied women, had had occasion to study women, and 
he was sorry for them, for their useless struggles. And 
well he might be. Through all the ages they had been 
trained to be seductive, so that at last they loved seduc- 
tive things, illusive things, beautiful things. 

418 


The Making of Jane 

Out in the dim twilight of the deep piazza she sat 
withdrawn on this last evening of her holiday. Through 
the wide-open windows she could watch the dancing, 
hear the music. Up the dim reaches of the river the 
shadows deepened, the lights twinkled here and there, 
the young moon hung in the sky. Illusive things, 
beautiful things, and the music that was floating about 
her seemed to whisper that this was her place, here in 
these surroundings was where she belonged; no, she 
had not realized how much such things meant until she 
had come back to them. It was not strange that after 
awhile people worshipped money, worshipped their so- 
cial gods. The soft movement of gliding feet, flowers 
and fair draperies, rippling laughter and watching eyes, 
the cry of the violins, the throb of the harps. And 
after this the sob of the wind through the wilderness, 
the beat of the rain among the everlasting hills ! Work, 
and when she was old — money ! 

There was a pause ; the dancers sat down and voices 
on the inside of the window became audible. Mrs. 
Kennet it was, and her incisive treble came clearly to 
Jane’s ears. 

“ His grandmother is just dead, you know,” she was 
saying, “ killed, I think, by a return of her great wealth 
because of some resuscitated mines. I don’t know very 
much about the details, but I do know that she is richer 
than she ever was, and she was sinfully rich at one time. 
Of course it has all come to him, and he is singing to- 
night simply to fulfil his engagement; fine, is it not? 
The proprietor had advertised him, you see, and as 
the man had stood by him when he was down, he now 

419 


The Making of Jane 

stands by the man. But when I think of what he has 
gone through it makes my blood boil ; and I do not see 
how she did it, I cannot imagine how she achieved it. 
I’ve known her all her life, and she is made of steel and 
stone, still I do not know how she accomplished it, 
how she squeezed all the life, and soul, and ambition 
out of him as she seems to have done. It will be a 
long story for you, as you've been out of the country, 
and of course I don't want to mention names in a crowd 
like this. She, you know, adopted a child, a cousin, 
a gentle creature, and I waited to see the little thing 
die of nervous prostration, or, surviving that, go into 
a lunatic asylum just as soon as she was old enough to 
realize things. She did neither, as it happened, and I 
will tell you why. He, you know, who is going to sing, 
and the other man whom you met travelling with them 
in Europe, went a great deal to the house, and of course 
people thought that it was on account of the girl; it 
seemed to develop, however, that the other man was 
paying more attention to the elder woman. People 
laughed, I among them, for it was such a new de- 
parture for her, but it proves that a woman is never 
too old to be a fool, and since then I have heard strange 
things. This fellow, however, who is going to sing, 
was in love with the girl. He was rich and a gentle- 
man, and the usual ruck of anxious mothers were 
watching him, so that a good deal was said and con- 
tradicted, and said over again. Suddenly, just as things 
seemed to be culminating, the girl ran away. That is 
what happened when she realized things, and that is the 
plain English of it, though it was explained differently. 
420 


The Making of Jane 

But she did, absolutely and actually, she ran away and 
was lost, apparently. Then what followed? Immedi- 
ately, instantly, another girl popped up in her place ; her 
sister, not as pretty, not as attractive, but sufficient for 
all purposes. The world heard that there were ten or 
twenty daughters, more or less, in this remarkable fam- 
ily, and that each must have a glimpse of the world. At 
the same time, the two lovers of the elder sister were 
carefully held on to as friends of the family, the poor 
lover as well as the rich. It looked well, you know, to 
have two followers. At the end of the second girl’s first 
season it was announced that she was engaged to the 
rich lover, then she was whisked off to Europe. Now 
comes the tragedy.” And Mrs. Kennet beat on the 
arm of her chair with her fan. “ The poor fellow who 
is going to sing changed so that his best friends did 
not recognize him ; and knowing not one thing about 
business, he began to play with his fortune. People 
scarcely realized at first what he was doing, and did 
not fully comprehend until the crash came. Everyone 
did everything they could then, but then it was too late ; 
he was ruined, absolutely ruined. It nearly killed his 
grandmother, especially as he would not take a cent 
from her ; the mines had not come in then and she had 
not much, so he would not take a cent and turned in to 
make his living as a singer, a choir and concert singer ; 
but before he did that he borrowed money and bolted 
off to Europe. He came of solid, sane people, so I 
knew that he was not crazy; he went to give the girl 
her freedom; see? He had never loved the second 
girl ; see ? The next thing that I heard was, that the en- 
421 


The Making of Jane 

gagement was off, that the girl had discovered that she 
loved the poor lover; the poor lover who had been 
talked about in connection with the elder woman, but 
who, I am sure, loved the elder girl. There is a mys- 
tery there, a mystery as to what hold the elder woman 
had over that poor fellow, a mystery that your story 
does not quite clear up. A little side light came to me 
through a servant, which is a disgraceful acknowledg- 
ment, but I was hiring him and had to ask him why he 
had left the lady in question. He answered quite 
promptly that it was because he had spoken of how she 
had received this young man in the morning when she 
had sent the young lady off to classes. I was so pleased 
with my side light that I hired him at once, and an excel- 
lent servant he is. But I assure you, my dear, that when 
all this came to my ears — that the engagement was off 
— that the girl had discovered that she loved the other 
man and had been announced as the heiress of the elder 
woman, I roared with laughter — laughed aloud; for 
then I understood why this young man who is going 
to sing threw away his money; threw it away just as 
surely as if he had poked it into the fire ; had thrown 
it away because he did not know what poverty meant, 
and because that was the only method by which he 
could escape from marriage with a woman he did not 
love, being, at the same time, too much of a gentleman 
to jilt her. It is very trying to marry where you do 
not love, you know ; but to marry one sister while you 
love the other sister, as he surely did, is more trying 
still. At least he did not seem able to face the situa- 
tion, preferring to face poverty. Two ills of which he 
422 


The Making of Jane 

knew nothing, he chose that which seemed the least. 
All this is clear enough ; what is not clear, is how that 
woman managed to kill all his spirit, how she made 
him so hopeless, took all the life out of him, quenched 
him so entirely. I’ve always known her to be a clever 
woman, a dangerous woman, and I can understand 
his sacrificing a fortune as he did to get away from 
her ; but this last thing that you tell me is stranger than 
all, and puzzles me ; I wish you’d say it over again.” 

“ Why,” a strange voice answered, “ when first we 
met them, the elder woman looked well and the girl 
unhappy ; and the man whom you speak of as the poor 
lover seemed extremely careless in his manners; sud- 
denly his old aunt died, and, as you know, cut him off 
with only about ten or fifteen thousand dollars — I for- 
get which — just then we left and went to Paris. We 
had not been there a week, when my husband met him 
on the street, and suggested the club, but he said no, 
that he had given up all clubs, and had gone to work. 
My husband exclaimed, ‘ Why, you came into a lump 
just the other day.’ He laughed and answered, ‘ Yes, 
and I used it up at once paying ‘ Glad life’s arrears.’ 
Which, I suppose, meant his debts.” 

“Yes; and then?” 

“ Why, we met the elder woman and the girl again 
very soon, and they had changed places in the matter of 
looks ; the girl looked happier than I’d ever seen her, 
and the elder woman looked twenty years older. She 
at once told us that the engagement was off — mutual 
consent,” she explained. 

“ It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” Mrs. Ken- 

423 


The Making of Jane 

net said, slowly, “ and I shall have to take all I know 
about it to pieces and try to match it all together again ; 
but what is her power? how did she get such a hold? 
how did she manage them so ? I can understand how 
anyone would sacrifice anything and everything to get 
away from Jane Saunders — ” The speaker stopped 
short, and looked over her shoulder as if startled. 
“ Someone sighed,” she said ; “ sighed directly in my 
ear — positively ! ” 

“ The wind stirred the curtain.” 

“ Excuse me ; curtains do not sigh, even in a hurri- 
cane. Just as I mentioned a name, too ; and I’ve been 
so careful about that.” 

“ In such a buzz of talk no one could have heard you. 
But here he comes, and since your explanation, I am 
wild to hear him sing.” 

Jane had no need to look in, to raise her head from 
where it leaned against the wall, in order to see the 
hero of the story. She knew who it was that had been 
making his living by singing at summer resorts, whose 
mellow voice it was that hushed the hum of talk. “To 
get away from Jane Saunders.” The words seemed 
to stand out before her; not for one moment did she 
doubt them; it was all too plain, too cruelly plain. 
And the other one? How clearly she remembered — 
he had compromised his debts — he had accepted money 
from a source he despised ! She tried to stop thinking ; 
the next step would almost overthrow her faith in her 
kind. He had used his legacy in paying “ Glad life’s 
arrears ” ! The universe seemed to pause for a mo- 
ment. Joseph’s testimony loomed up next. She could 
424 


The Making of Jane 

have cried aloud — if only she could implore Mrs. Saun- 
ders to contradict it all. Hard she had been, unsym- 
pathetic, yes, but not wicked — no — no! She would 
put it out of her life; she would not believe it; ser- 
vant’s talk ; disgraceful, indeed. She would forget it ; it 
seemed to have soiled her whole being, her very soul ! 
Thank God ! oh, thank God ! she had gone away. And 
she had loved that man ; but yet he had paid the debts 
that had held him, “ Glad life’s arrears,” she could 
hear him say it. And that childish glamour had been 
revealed to Laurence Creswick, of course ; and she had 
found the thread to the maze. Of course! and all 
along he had loved her. 

The song had ceased, and once more the talk buzzed 
up, and once more Mrs. Kennet’s voice came to her 
ears. 

“ He has seen me, poor fellow, and is coming to speak 
to me. I’ll introduce him.” 

Then, not a foot away from her, Laurence Creswick 
took his seat on the window-sill ; seated himself so that 
but for the darkness he would have looked straight into 
her eyes. She dared not move away. He was looking 
out now — he must see her ! 

A man pausing to light a cigarette, struck a match. 
She felt as if the skies had opened and the glare of 
heaven was shining on her face. She was conscious 
that Creswick had risen suddenly to his feet, and as 
suddenly had sat down again. It was over in a second, 
and she heard Mrs. Kennet say: “Saw a ghost? I 
believe that window is haunted. I heard a sigh there 
just as you began to sing — a distinct sigh.” 

425 


The Making of Jane 

“It is haunted by a draught,” her friend rejoined; 
“ and now, if Mr. Creswick is not to sing again, I shall 
say good-night. So glad to have met you, Mr. Cres- 
wick. You coming, too, Mrs. Kennet?” 

“ Think I shall, it grows late, and the music’ll soon 
stop now. The management is awfully stingy with 
the music — awfully stingy. Good-night, Laurence.” 

There was a scraping of chairs on the waxed floor, 
a moment’s pause, then Laurence Creswick stepped 
out over the low sill and stood beside her. 

“Jane!” he whispered under his breath, “Jane?” 

Perhaps he was blinded, coming out from the light; 
perhaps he had forgotten Mrs. Saunders’s talk, set 
to the mad clamor of the street-organ; perhaps he 
had forgotten Marion. Perhaps he had forgotten all 
this, else he would not have stepped out of the win- 
dow, have bent so low over the woman sitting shrouded 
in the shadows. 

“ Jane?” 

She swept her white draperies aside from the bench 
that he might sit down, then, in a carefully level voice, 
that would have done credit to Mrs. Saunders herself, 
she said: “I am so glad to see you, Mr. Creswick, 
and of course you are surprised to see me here. Take 
it all in all, I am a little bit surprised myself.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ I am here on a holiday,” she went on, “ given me 
by my firm in return for one year’s meritorious ser- 
vice.” She laughed a little. Creswick sat quite still, 
and the laughter, that had a strange sound, died away. 

“ You do not understand about my firm,” Jane be- 
426 


The Making of Jane 

gan again. “ I have kept that quite a secret until 
just before I left Newtown.” 

“Newtown?” Creswick repeated. 

“ Yes, that is where I live.” Her words were be- 
ginning to crowd each other now, were becoming a 
little breathless. “ You left me in a milliner’s shop,” 
she went on. “ You were awfully good about that, 
and, thanks to you, I made the shop pay, actually pay 
— I cleared fifteen dollars! Don’t laugh, don’t even 
smile, thinking that I cannot see you out here in the 
dark, for that fifteen dollars was the corner-stone of 
my fortune. Mr. Beaton, who owns the greater part 
of Newtown, watched my brilliant career, and when 
he wanted a head for his department shop in New- 
town he offered me the position on a rising salary, 
which I declined. Do not you congratulate me on 
my enormous advance in self-confidence ? ” She paused 
abruptly, perhaps to catch her breath, but Creswick 
did not answer. He was leaning back, and even in 
the darkness it could be seen that his white face was 
turned toward the far, unseeable reaches of the river. 

“ I declined,” Jane went on, “ because I wanted to 
be a member of the company, and I succeeded. They 
hesitated over a woman, but I pledged myself to them 
in perpetuity, so to speak. Promised to be manly, to 
become as hard as nails, and have given satisfaction.” 

Still Creswick did not speak, did not move. 

“ You remember we talked about it once, long ago? 
About women making livings and not fortunes? I 
shall make a fortune. I think it very satisfactory, do 
not you? And so, after a year of unbroken work, they 
427 


The Making of Jane 

presented me with two weeks’ holiday. I went first 
to New York, and, as a relaxation from working like 
a man, I hunted up my old dressmaker and bought 
clothes like a woman. She wanted me to wait until 
she came back from Europe with the autumn styles. 
Think of the autumn styles in Newtown! I saw old 
Simmons, too, went to the house and had a long talk 
with the old fellow, a long, long talk. He was the 
first creature I had met that belonged to my past life, 
and he seemed an old friend. And I made the old 
man stand aside so that I could shut the front door 
myself, and I told him quite frankly why I did it. 
That I wanted to hear the latch click as it had clicked 
that fateful morning when I ran away; that cold, gray, 
dismal autumn morning when I took my life into my 
own hands, to end in pledging it to the Newtown 
Land Company.” 

There was another pause, when someone sighed, a 
sigh with a catch in it; then once more, quickly, Jane 
took up her story: 

“ It is a good investment,” she said, “ at least — well, 
the flies and the mosquitoes were worrying me so, and 
it was so hot.” 

“When did you go to Newtown?” Creswick had 
turned to look at Jane. “ When was it? ” 

“ In June — yes, it was June,” she paused a second, 
“June a year ago. It is very hot in Stony Ridge in 
June, very hot.” Then, in a lower voice, hesitating 
a little, she went on : “A strange thought came to 
me,” she said, “when I made Simmons let me shut 
the door. At each crisis of my life I have had a door 
428 


The Making of Jane 

to shut, a door that seemed to separate me forever 
from what had gone before. The first, I was a little 
child playing in the nursery with my brother Jim and 
— Marion — and outside it was raining. Mawm Elsie 
was rocking the baby to sleep in a big chair that 
creaked and groaned, and the fire burned red and 
warm, and struck up against the ceiling. And a lion 
was coming after us, me and Jim, and we were trying 
so hard to reach the trundle-bed. The door opened; 
mother came in. Her face looked so small and white, 
I think she must have been sorry, and she took us 
down to Cousin Henry. I shut the door, you see, 
that was the first door. When I ran away I shut the 
door again, and the latch clicked so clear, so loud, I 
can hear it still. And I shut the shop door, the little 
shop door, and the lock was rusty.” She cleared her 
throat and straightened up. “ And each time,” she 
went on, “ I have gone into a new life in equal blind- 
ness, and each time it has been more irrevocable than 
the time before.” 

Creswick had turned away again, had leaned for- 
ward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands 
clasped together loosely, and his head drooped over 
them. 

“And now,” and Jane drooped a little as if with 
weariness, “ now I seem to be peeping through the 
key-holes of the doors, being allowed to catch little 
glimpses of what I have left behind, what I was driven 
away from ” 

Creswick turned his head slightly. “ Driven away? ” 

“ Yes, by many things; it was not all wilful flight,” 
429 


The Making of Jane 

and she sighed. “The dressmaker, you know, was a 
part of one picture, and the talk with old Simmons. 
Then coming here to rest gave me another glimpse 
of the same picture ; the dancing, the music, my wear- 
ing of fine raiment, the food ” 

“ You have never been in need, Jane? ” Creswick 
interrupted, quickly. 

“ Never in need.” 

There was a moment’s silence, when Creswick again 
drooped his head as if gazing on the floor, then Jane 
went on: 

“ And sitting here I’ve heard Mrs. Kennet talking, 
talking, talking the old talk of the world I used to 
know; giving me another view through the key-hole. 
Tearing people to pieces, and the longer she had known 
them, the smaller were the pieces to which she re- 
duced them. She was talking of Mrs. Saunders — of 
me — ” Jane paused, but Creswick did not move. “ She 
gave me some new lights ; she put together some puz- 
zles; made plain some things about, about — Simmons 
had just hinted at.” Again she stopped, but Creswick 
did not move, did not speak. 

“ And this winter,” Jane went on, “ I shall see a pict- 
ure I have much longed for, I shall go home. I shall 
go back to the old nursery, shall sit in the old chair, 
shall see the fire burn red and warm, shall hunt for 
the lost delights of my childhood. I shall go back 
to the time, the little time of my life when I was happy. 
I could build a fire just like the fire I left that night; 
I would know the trundle-beds among a million, and 
if I could go into Paradise I could put my hand on 
430 


The Making of Jane 

Jim among all the little angels. I can hear Marion’s 
cries until she got my doll and chair; I can see the 
lion’s red eyes gleaming in the corner; I can hear 
the door-latch turn. I can feel the big emptiness of 
Mrs. Saunders’s house; I can feel my heart, my little 
child’s heart breaking day by day. I have never told 
before, save once — once I told her that I hated her, 
once. Now I am sorry for her; now I am free of her, 
and the world is wide. I have been deceived; I have 
blundered, and blunders are punished like sins; I have 
made mistakes, but I have learned that life must be 
lived, and to live it to any effect we must live it calmly. 
I have learned to rise above hatred; I have learned 
not to despair.” 

“ I hate Mrs. Saunders.” Creswick’s voice was very 
quiet. “ Whether she told me truth or not, I hate 
her.” 

Then nothing was heard save the boom of the sea 
that seemed to come nearer and nearer. Long ago 
the young moon had set, the music had ceased. Up 
and down the river the lights had gone out one by 
one; the sounds of life were fading, and a wringing 
wet mist was creeping up from the sea. Very still, 
while the mist wrapped them round, drenching Jane’s 
draperies until they clung to her; beading all the rip- 
ples of her hair; resting like tears on their cheeks. 
At last she rose, holding out her hand. “ Good-by,” 
she said, “ I go in the morning.” 

Creswick rose. “ Good-by? ” he repeated. “ No,” 
and he came very close to her. “ No, there is one 
more door to be closed,” he went on quietly, “and 
43i 


The Making of Jane 

my hand is on the latch, not yours this time, but mine. 
I shall close the door of the Newtown Land Com- 
pany; I shall buy it out if necessary. For a little 
while I lost faith in you, and I went down into Hell. 
Now, now,” and he put his hands on the two sides 
of her face and lifted it up, “ Now I shall not ask you; 
I shall close the door and take you away — you will 
come with me, Jane?” 


432 









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